“And I,”—“And I,”—“And I,” cried others, while some of the rest confessed to having two or three.
“And the enemy are coming on for a fresh attack of some kind. There’s quite a mob making for your window, Mr Lynn.”
“And they’ve got about a dozen stink-pots with them, sir,” cried another.
Stan glanced round, and there was the situation plainly enough. Some ten men were in the front of a cluster of about forty of the enemy, who were coming steadily on with levelled jingals, obviously making for the centre of the building.
“Now’s your time, sir,” whispered the lieutenant. “Let’s give them one good roar.”
“Yes,” said Stan, and he shouted to the occupants of the other windows to close up round him and bring the coolies to stand ready for the fire-pots close behind.
The evolution, if such it can be called, was performed at once, the little party of riflemen placing themselves in three rows behind their barricade, the first kneeling, the second stooping a little to fire over their fellows’ heads, and the back row perfectly upright, with the barrels of their rifles resting on the shoulders of the second line.
“We must risk the fire-pots, gentlemen,” said Stan; “but I hope to give the wretches one good, startling volley before they are able to throw. Right into the thick of them, mind, and then, before the smoke rises, every man must dash down below and into the office. I mean to hold that now.”
“But hadn’t we better fill up our belts first, sir, with cartridges?”
“They have all been soaked with water,” said Stan quietly. “There has been treachery here.”