Proof was afforded the next minute by Blunt’s brisk voice addressing them with—
“Now, my lads, I want you to fight your best for us. How many of you can manage rifles?”
There was a few moments’ silence, and then a deep voice said:
“No wantee lifle. Takee big ilon clowba’, sha’p chip-chop knifee. Kill allee pilate, evely one.”
“That will do. Wait, then, till the wretches rush in, and then use the bars and your knives. I see you mean to fight.”
There was further shuffling of soft feet, and though he could see nothing, Stan knew that the big picked Chinamen, whose muscles were hardened by their tasks of handling and running to and fro over gangways with heavy bales, casks, and chests, were being posted in places of vantage ready to receive the enemy when they landed at the wharf and made their first onslaught.
Stan turned to watch the junks, whose sails were now lowered as unnecessary and stowed lengthwise to be out of the way, while great sweeps had been passed out, not to urge on the vessels, but to keep a little way on and make them answer the steering-gear, the force of the current being enough for the enemy’s purpose, which was to lay them alongside the wharf after—as was proved ere long—a sharp discharge from their clumsy artillery.
“How long they seem in coming!” thought Stan, though in reality the time was very short; and then he started, for Blunt had come close up behind him unperceived.
“Here I am,” he said. “We are all ready, and our people are waiting for you to open the ball.”
“For me?” cried Stan, who felt startled.