“Yes; I suppose so. But hadn’t we better get the flag up first, and then it will be done?”
“No,” said Blunt shortly. “I’m not going to do anything till all our men have had a good meal. I’m not going to drive my team till every horse has had his corn, so in with you.”
“I suppose he’s right,” thought Stan; “but I couldn’t take matters like that with the enemy coming slowly and surely on.”
Right or wrong, Blunt took the head of the table, and made ready for Stan to sit on his right. Directly after the rattle of knives and forks began, the Chinese servants placed great steaming mugs of coffee at every man’s side, and the thick slices of bread-and-butter which kept coming in relays seemed to melt off the dishes as if they were a confection of ice, while the tall coffee-urns ran more and more dry, till there was a general falling-off in the demands for more, and the manager’s stores had shrunk to the lowest ebb.
“Now then,” he cried suddenly, rising and beating the side of his coffee-mug with a spoon, “there’s plenty of time, so file off quietly; but every man will now take his place. All of you remember this, however—that Mr Lynn and I want prudence, not rashness. When the firing begins every man is to make as much use as he can of his shelter. Some of us must be hit, but the fewer the better.”
There was a cheer at this.
“No more cheering,” cried Blunt firmly. “This is business, not pleasure. Now, one more thing I want you all to remember. When you aim at a man and draw trigger, it is not for the sake of making a noise, but for every one to prove his marksmanship and get rid of one enemy. That is all; now in silence, please, every man to his appointed station.”
The men, Europeans and Asiatics, filed out quietly, each man taking his rifle from where he had leaned it against the wall, and Stan turned to Blunt’s chief servant.
“Have you taken breakfast to Mr Wing?” he said.
The man smiled and nodded.