Friendly voices by the score were now heard making inquiries; the help was plentiful, and in less than an hour clever carpenters were hammering away, replacing the broken and burned windows with a lattice-work of bamboo. Soon after a late-arriving party of the city guard were pursuing the marauders, while a certain number were posted about the offices and warehouse to protect the rich stores within from “friendly” and unfriendly attack.
But there was no sleep for the Lynns that night, and daylight made such a display of the effects of the night’s business that Stan’s first disposition was to burst out laughing in his uncle’s face.
“Eh? What is it? Why are you grinning at me, sir?” said the object of Stan’s mirth.
“I couldn’t help it, uncle,” said the lad apologetically. “Go and have a wash, and just look at your face.”
“Blackened a bit? Well, it does smart.”
“Why, Jeff,” cried Stan’s father, “your eyebrows, eyelashes, and beard are completely burned away.”
“What!” cried Uncle Jeff angrily. “My beautiful great beard? Oh! that comes of trying to save this wretched old house and store.—Why, you heartless young ruffian,” he roared as he met his nephew’s mirthful eyes, “you are laughing at my misfortune. Do you know what a loss like this means to me?”
“Yes, uncle,” replied Stan: “waiting until it grows again.”
Uncle Jeff’s countenance was a study as he stood staring at his nephew, his forehead all in wrinkles, eyes screwed up, and lips compressed, till all at once the muscles relaxed, his eyes opened widely, and a frank, pleasant smile of satisfaction began to make him look genial and sunny.
“Why, of course!” he cried. “I was going to put it down as a dead loss. I never thought of that, Stan. To be sure, it’s only a bit of waiting for it to grow again. Here, I can’t go out in this state. Call Sin the Wicked, Stan.”