“Yes; I see.”
“Let him have it, then. Sharp! He must not fire that piece.”
Stan’s rifle rang out, and the Chinaman dropped behind the high bulwark and was seen no more.
“Load again, stupid!” cried Blunt, for Stan half-knelt behind the opening from which he had aimed, looking stunned and motionless, impressed as he was by his terrible success. But he started into active life again under the spur of his companion’s fierce words.
“Keep on firing slowly and steadily, Lynn,” said Blunt in tones which made the lad feel that he must obey, though the compunction was dying and he knew how necessary it was to render the big piece useless by checking the efforts of the gunners.
He fired again just in the nick of time, and the man who now held the linstock dropped it and stood gesticulating to his companions.
“You’ve missed him, Lynn,” said Blunt angrily. “Look! he has picked it up again.”
Stan needed no telling that he had only startled the gunner by sending a bullet close to his head, and before he could fire again a puff of smoke darted from the mouth of the piece, and Blunt struck him sharply across the back, spoiling his aim so that the bullet from his rifle went anywhere.
“Why did you do that?” he cried sharply, for the blow stirred him into making an angry retort, as he gazed through the smoke at his comrade. “I’ve done the best I could. I’m not used to this sort of—Why—what—Mr Blunt!” he cried, as he saw a peculiar look in the manager’s face, and that he was leaning sideways against the wall of bales. “Oh! you’re hurt!”
The manager tightened his lips and nodded sharply before letting himself subside, gliding down half-resting against the defensive building, and saving himself from falling headlong in his faintness.