“A dead man,” said Stan’s lieutenant.
“I was afraid I could not do it,” said Stan, smiling; “but he’s not a dead man, for I only fired at his legs. Look! they’re carrying him on board the junk.”
It was as the lad said: several of the men from the crowd went back to help, while the rest stood fast watching and waiting as if, losing their heads, they had suddenly been struck with a feeling of indecision. All the wild, savage desire for destruction had been discharged like so much electricity at the touch of a rod, and a feeling of hopefulness sprang up amongst the defenders as they could see that the whole of the attacking party were now gathered into groups talking eagerly, so that there was a low, buzzing hum instead of the chorus of savage yells and threats.
“Where’s Wing?” said Stan suddenly, as a thought struck him respecting taking advantage of the lull. “I know: he is with Mr Blunt. One of you go and tell him to send the servants with anything he can get together in the way of food. Another of you bring a bucket of drinking-water up here.”
The orders were carried out, and with watchful eyes and rifles ready to hand, the whole party partook of the rough refreshments passed round, the water proving, in their excited state, the principal object to which they directed their attention.
Wing limped up to Stan as soon as he had performed his task, to announce that Mr Blunt had gone “fas’ ’sleep. Velly weak; can’tee sit up. Dlinkee big lot wateh.”
Stan longed to go and see his chief, but duty kept him there watching the actions of the men still crowding the wharf, till some one in authority began to shout, when his followers crept up together as if for a fresh attack.
This brought the refreshing to a hasty end, every man hurrying at once to his post, but only to set up a subdued cheer, for, to Stan’s intense delight, the next order seemed to be one for making the fighting-men separate into half-a-dozen different parties, as if drilled to certain movements; but it only proved to be for forming up in the divisions belonging to each junk, on to which they now began to file, either direct from the wharf or across the nearest vessels to their own.
“They’ve had enough of it, sir,” said one of the clerks excitedly. “Hadn’t we better give them a cheer and a few parting shots?”
“No,” said Stan thoughtfully; “it would only be wasting ammunition. I can’t quite believe in their giving up so easily.”