“No, I don’t,” said Blunt in the roughest manner. “I trust Wing—as far as one can trust a Chinaman—but it is always on the cards that the scare is not so bad as he made out. Now then, let’s see about the shooting-tackle.”
Blunt led the way quickly, and with a decision in his step that showed how much he was in earnest, to the portion of the warehouse set apart for the arms-rack, chest, and the magazine.
“This is the sort of thing your people at Hai-Hai ought to set up,” said Blunt. “I hinted at it when I was over there, but your father said so plainly that he preferred to trust to the police there that I said no more, only made up my mind that, as we have no police or protection of any kind here, I was quite right in being prepared for the worst. What do you say?”
“I hate the idea of using such things,” said Stan gravely, “but it must be right here.”
“Of course; and you won’t mind using a rifle?”
“I shall mind very much,” replied Stan, “but I’m going to use one.”
“That’s right. Here we are,” said Blunt, unlocking and raising the trap-door in the floor by its ring, and descending half-a-dozen steps into a bricked-in place with something resembling a wine-bin of three shelves on one side, in which were stacked a few boxes not unlike cases of wine.
“Here! let’s have them out at once,” said Blunt, and he handed up to his young companion case after case.
“Set them on that big table,” he said. “Mind be careful. I don’t know whether if one were dropped the cartridges would explode, but I shouldn’t like to try it. There you are; two cases for the rifles, and one for the revolvers. We’ll leave the rest here, with the key in ready if wanted. Now for the tools themselves.”
He stepped out, closed the trap, and turned to the arms-rack.