“Yes, to a man, sir,” said the objector. “I dare say I’m wrong in my ideas, and I give way.”
There was a cheer at this. Every man went back to his shelter and examined his rifle, afterwards taking out and examining his revolver before thrusting it back in its holster, while Stan went from man to man to inspect his supply of cartridges, and ended by having a fresh box up and himself seeing to the refilling of every bandolier.
While this was in progress those who kept a strict watch found that no further attack was being made. The matchlock firing had ceased, and the men beneath the outer defence lay crouched close as if waiting for further orders.
But the preparations on board the junks were being made with a determination that augured a serious encounter at the next attack. Men were collecting, armed with spears and the great heavy curved Chinese swords which widened out in the blade from about an inch and a half at the handle to more than double that width near the point; while something fresh suddenly took Stan’s attention, and he pointed it out to those with him in the great store.
“Yes, sir,” said his chief backer in the late debate; “that’s the ugliest thing we’ve seen yet.”
“Why, it looks like the preparation for a procession. Every hatch on the different junks has seven or eight great Chinese lanterns; but they’re not yet lit, so far as I can tell in this bright sunshine.”
“They mean it for a procession,” said Lawrence, “and they think it is for our funeral.”
“What!” cried Stan. “But look; what’s that smoke?”
“They’re lighting stink-pots to throw, sir. Those and the lanterns are to burn us out.”
“Think so?”