“Perhaps not, boy, but they’d feel you. There are dozens of them, and you may rest assured that they have surrounded the place. Help must come from without. All we can do is to hold out and fight as savagely as they do.”
“Hush! what’s that?” said Stanley’s father sharply.
“I can hear it: hammering somewhere at the back,” said Stanley excitedly.
“It’s what I expected,” said his uncle. “They are trying to break in there. Let’s give them a couple of rounds, and then get out of here and barricade the door.”
“I don’t like giving up till they force a way in,” said Stanley’s father; and the lad felt that he was right, until his uncle spoke.
“Are we fit to meet such an onslaught as they will make?” he said angrily. “They’ll rush in with spear and sword—you know their reckless way. We should be overpowered at once. Come, Oliver, leave all to me. Firing is our only chance.”
“Yes,” said Stanley’s father. “Give the word.”
It was given, and another little volley was delivered, filling the office with light for a moment, and the dense, dank smell of burnt gunpowder for long enough.
This volley did more mischief, for much of the woodwork of the panels had been cut away; but the result was only to enrage the attacking party more and more, making them hack furiously at the door, and with such effect that the proximity of the sounds indicated that it could not be long before it was broken right away.
“Be ready for the retreat,” said Uncle Jeff. “Can you find your way, Stan?”