“What a close shave! Never mind; a miss is as good as a mile,” added the young fellow cheerily. “I saw the captain, though, or whatever he is, lying down at the foot of the warehouse quite dead.”
“Are you sure?” asked Stan, with his face contracted.
“Oh yes—quite. He wouldn’t be lying doubled up as he is if he were only wounded. I say, Mr Lynn, that wasn’t a bad shot.”
“No; excellent, and just in the nick of time. Who fired it?”
“Well,” said the young man, hesitating and speaking as if he were not so proud of the effort after further consideration, “I fired straight at him, as I thought, just as he was in the act of flinging that blazing pot; but I can’t say I am sure that I hit him.”
“But you are sure that he is dead?” replied Stan quietly. “Pray be cautious, though. Don’t run such a risk by looking out again.”
“You may take my word for it I won’t, sir,” said the young clerk, patting the side of his head softly as he spoke. “One taste like this will act as a reminder for some time.—Hullo! Look out. They’ve begun again.”
There was proof of a renewal of the attempt to destroy the place by fire in the presence of another of the pirates’ hand-shells, for one came sailing in through the farthest window, to break up with a crash about the middle of the flooring; and the defenders had a fine exemplification of the dangers to which they were exposed in seeing the half-liquid contents of the pot begin to flow, blazing steadily, in all directions.
One of the coolies rushed up at once to spread the contents of a bucket of water all over the burning patch, while another, regardless of the pain, ran here and there catching up the flame-licked fragments of the pot from where they had fallen, and kept on hurling them like little smoke-tailed comets back through the window-opening.
“More water,” shouted Stan, as the burning patch began to add another odour to its own, a fine, pungent smoke beginning to mingle with the dense black fume, indicating that the floor boards were beginning to catch.