The answer came from his heart quite silently: it was to go and see how Blunt had fared, and where he had been placed. But the intent was crushed out by the orders that had been given him—by Blunt’s own words about his only being one, and that Stan was not to do anything to sacrifice many lives for the sake of looking after one wounded.
His place, he knew the next moment, was to be on the upper floor, watching and directing, ready to send men here and there where the danger was most pressing, and above all to be on the watch for the great peril; and to this end he made his way to where the great water-casks stood ready filled, wishing to make sure that if the emergency arrived the coolies were at their posts ready to run here or there with buckets of water.
To his great delight, there they all were, every man stripped to the waist and with a great ready-bared knife stuck through his girdle, ready to salute him with a broad smile and seize a bucket to plunge into the open-ended casks.
“No, no—not yet!” cried Stan authoritatively. “Be ready.”
A grunting murmur of satisfaction followed him as he hurried back towards the broad stairs, at the foot of which the big carpenters and their two assistants stood, knife-armed like the rest, and having a great moving crowbar resting with one end upon the floor.
Stan was about to spring up the stairs with the intention of sending one of the clerks to the office to report upon his chief’s state, when he heard a shrill cry, and turning sharply, he became aware that Wing, in spite of his injuries, was up and dressed, and limping painfully in his efforts to overtake him.
“Ah, Wing!” he cried. “Up? You ought to be lying down out of danger.”
“Wing not lil bit ’flaid,” said the man quickly. “Wing look see if young Lynn allee light, quite well, casee you wantee know allee ’bout Misteh Blunt.”
“Yes, yes; I was going to send. I can’t come yet,” cried Stan eagerly.
“Wing t’ink muchee jus’ come tell young Lynn Misteh Blunt lie on back. Tablee. Close Wing. Wing see what matteh.”