“No,” said Uncle Jeff shortly. “People will think it is some Chinese row, and by the time the right sort of help comes it will be too late if we don’t take care.—Now then, Oliver, it means business. We must hold the place till help does come. Make ready, and let’s give them three shots through the door. I don’t suppose it will do any harm to them, but it may scare them off. Now then!—You will fire too, Stan?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Quick, then! Aim straight at the spot where the noise is loudest. Ready!—Fire!”
Three revolver-shots sounded almost like one, and this was followed by a low, fierce snarl. The beating and breaking of the woodwork ceased, and there was an angry, passionate cry, with a deep, hurried growling as of many voices.
“Some one hit,” said Stanley’s father.
“And serve the wretch right!” cried Uncle Jeff fiercely. “Come, Oliver, old fellow, it is no time for being squeamish; it’s our lives or theirs.”
“Yes,” said Stanley’s father firmly. “Forgive me if I had a few minutes’ hesitation. We must fight, Jeff, and do our best. Help must come at last.”
“But can’t I go and fetch help, father—uncle?”
“No, boy—no,” said his uncle impatiently. “Do you want to be hacked to pieces?”
“No, uncle. They wouldn’t see me in the dark.”