“Wing’s right,” cried Blunt. “It must be a gunboat, and they are firing shell.”
“Yes, yes,” shouted Stan, and there was a peculiar hysterical ring in his voice. “Look, uncle! that junk to the right is torn open; the poop is smashed. There’s the smoke of the shell rising, and—Hurrah! She’s going down!”
Stan’s triumphant cry was taken up three times over, the defenders crowding the narrow slits to get a glimpse of what was going on—for the first shot had checked the attack, literally paralysing the pirates with astonishment; the second turned the assault into a retreat, while as the fierce hurrahs of the people in the hong went on, the gangways of the junks were being crowded in the rush for safety.
“Hoolay! hoolay! hoolay!” came from the ceiling of the great room; while as Stan turned, there was Wing’s head visible as he thrust it down, and as soon as he saw that he was observed the Chinaman shouted, “Big Englis’ ship fi’e two-bang shot.”
Boom! came another report, and, almost at the same moment, crash!
Another shell had burst just over the second junk close up to the wharf, the splintering of fragments causing terrible havoc, which was trampled out of sight directly by the men crowding aboard.
For the moment Stan forgot all about their own perilous position, for the air rushing in through the barricaded windows was cool and refreshing; but Blunt had had eyes for what was going on below and within, where the air was growing stifling with smoke and heat.
“Here, Lynn,” he shouted. “Quick! That whistle! Blow, lad, blow!”
The shrill note rang out, and brought every one crowding up to one end of the great stacked-up floor.
“Ah! that’s right,” cried Uncle Jeff. “Nothing to fear from the enemy now, lads; clear this window.”