“And stay with Mr Blunt; he may want water.”
“No stay ’long Misteh Blunt—no. Say Wing makee ’self useful. B’long wa’ehouse now. Stop see if fi’ begin to buln, and put um out ’gain with bucketee wateh.”
“Very well; do that, then.”
“Yes, Wing go stand ’longside ca’tlidge place. See no stinkee-pot come floo.”
“Yes; good. Be off; I’m going to fire.”
“Go fi’?” said Wing. “Yes; no shootee Wing. Get ’way now.”
It was quite time, as the Chinaman felt. Limping along the floor, he made for the stairway, and had just reached it when, with a roar and dash, the fierce enemy climbed to the top of the little wall and began to discharge their jingals and fire-pots, no less than three of these latter falling inside at the first discharge.
It was a repetition of the first assault, but earned on with more savage energy, in spite of the calm, steady reply in single shots from the defenders, who kept to their former tactics, with the result that nearly every time a rifle sent forth its jet of flame and faint puff of smoke it meant a message of death or temporary disablement to some miscreant who was more prominent than his fellows in the assault.
But they were as far, apparently, as ever from carrying the place, and when, enraged by their ill-success, about a score of the most desperate dropped from the wall to try and batter in the doors, covered by a fierce discharge of the fire-pots through the windows above, Stan, terrible as the time was, felt an old incident of schoolboy life flash across his brain.
It was no time of fire, although it was mimic battle royal, for it was an episode of snowballing when the weaker side were driven to take flight and shelter themselves behind the dwarf wall of the covered-in portion of the playground, where no snow had of course fallen, while just outside it lay piled up consequent upon the roof having been swept after a heavy fall. Stan and his fellows were therefore in the position of being without ammunition, while their adversaries were standing knee-deep in the midst of abundance.