It was like a clicking signal for every one to do the same, the sounds running strangely along the stack-encumbered floor.
Then all was silent till Blunt, who was once more taking the lead, his thin, sunken lineaments giving him a fiercely haggard aspect, spoke again.
“Here they come,” he said; “but no firing until the first men land. Save only for us,” he added in a low voice. “You, Mr Lynn—you, Lynn junior—will do as I do: keep our best marksmanship for the leaders and the men working and firing the guns.”
A low, growling whisper was the reply, and then all watched the coming ships with their grotesque heads and listened to the buzzing booming of the gongs.
“You gave them a severe lesson last time, Stan,” said Blunt after watching the manoeuvres of the enemy for a few minutes, not a swivel-gun nor jingal being fired as the junks were worked up in a double line close alongside of the wharf, where great hooks were thrown ashore, as well as from junk to junk. “They’re not going to waste time, but are coming on for a big assault all at once.”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Uncle Jeff calmly. “Well, we must shoot down their leaders, and if the rest come on they’ll have a hard job to get in at any of the windows.”
The gongs kept on their monotonous booming, while the watchers with bated breath noted that the previous losses had made no perceptible difference, the decks of the clumsy vessels being as thronged as ever, while more discipline was visible, parties of men working together under leaders, and with a wonderful absence of confusion.
“They mean mischief, uncle,” said Stan, who found it hard to bear the waiting, his young blood being full of excitement, and he was longing to begin.
“So do we, my boy,” said Uncle Jeff coolly; “more than they expect. I don’t want to brag, but I learnt to be a good shot, and I feel as if I can’t miss a man at this short distance. You feel the same, don’t you?”
“No, uncle; I feel my hands all of a shake, and as if I should miss every one I shot at.”