Another packet from the next layer was tried, but the wrapper was if anything wetter, and a click! was the result.
“Oh, they’re all spoiled,” said Lawrence bitterly. “The game’s up, so only let us die fighting.”
“Of course,” said Stan coolly enough; “but we’ve not used our revolvers yet. We’ll give them a volley from our rifles, and then we must take to our pistols and wait till they come to close quarters.”
“What do you say to retreating to the office after the volley, and then defending the door as the brutes try to get at us? The revolvers will tell splendidly there, too, as we shall be firing into the dense mob who crowd into the passage.”
“The very thing,” said Stan; “and we shall be defending Mr Blunt at the same time. Of course; and we must set the coolies at work then to help us with their knives.”
“Yes,” said Stan’s lieutenant, “the coolies—Chinamen. Mr Lynn,” he cried in a hoarse whisper, “it must have been one of those dogs who were to be ready to stop the fire with their buckets.”
“It couldn’t have been,” said Stan. “They were all up here.”
“Then it was that cunning Chinese fox, Wing,” growled Lawrence angrily; “and if we’re to die he shall go first.”
“Oh, impossible!” said Stan excitedly.
“I’ve got but one cartridge left,” shouted a man at the far end of the room.