“No!” snapped out Blunt, as if he were maddened by the pain he suffered. “Do you want to turn a brave resistance into a panic?”
“No; of course not, but—”
“Silence!” cried the poor fellow sternly. “The men are fighting splendidly now, and I want them to go on till such time as it is necessary to get inside and continue the defence from the upper windows. Do you hear?”
“Yes; and I’ll do all you wish, but I must have time to get you safe inside.”
“Leave that to me,” said Blunt slowly and in a more gentle tone. And then, as if warned by his sensations, he continued: “If I faint, use your own common-sense. Don’t hesitate: fight till it seems folly to hold on longer here; then blow the whistle with all your might. Some of them are sure to rush to your help. Then let a couple take me by the hands and drag me—don’t let them stop to carry me—drag me in through the first doorway.”
“I’ll take one hand myself.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” cried Blunt passionately. “I order you to take my place as captain, and as your father’s son save us all from this murderous scum. You’re captain now—do you hear?”
Stan nodded.
“Then act sensibly. Do you want to give up directing and turn yourself into a coolie to save one helpless man, and perhaps sacrifice your own life?”
“But you are—”