“Ah! that’s right,” cried Stan, for the big coolie who had taken his place near them pressed forward with a bucket of water, which he set down while he thrust out his head to see exactly where the danger lay, before picking up the bucket again, reaching out, and dribbling the water down a little at a time, producing a cloud of steam to mingle with the black smoke, and putting an end to all danger of a fire starting at the lower barricaded windows.
As the cloud of steam and smoke passed off, one of the clerks risked thrusting out his head from the next window, but withdrew it sharply, for it resulted in a hasty discharge of jingals from the deck of the nearest junk.
“Hurt?” cried Stan, rushing to where the clerk had staggered back.
“Yes, sir, horribly,” was the reply. “Something—a piece of iron—or—a—a bullet—caught me—here—and—”
The words came at short intervals, and sounded confused. For the speaker was feeling about his head and neck, and drawing in his breath with pain.
“One moment,” cried Stan, reaching out a hand to take something from where it had lodged just within the poor fellow’s collar.
“Yes, that must have been it,” he said wonderingly. “Bit of stone. Hit me on the side of the head. But that couldn’t have come out of one of their matchlocks.”
“No,” said Stan; “it must have been chipped off the side of the window.”
“And there’s only a lump coming here. Doesn’t bleed, does it, sir?”
“No,” replied Stan. “You had a lucky escape.”