The stool splintered in his grasp. “Black George” relaxed, went limp, then collapsed.
“Whew,” said Bob, panting. “I guess I’d have gotten him, Frank, but I don’t know. He’s a tough fighter.”
Jack’s voice behind them rose in a scream.
“Look out. Here they come.”
They whirled to face the new danger. And in through the doorway behind the hangings poured a dozen ruffians. Jack bounded to the side of his companions. The newcomers were Chinese, and evil looking they were in the dim light of that subterranean
room, with their glaring almond eyes and yellow faces. They gripped revolvers and long knives, and as their eyes took in the two figures of their leaders on the floor a hoarse murmur arose and they started to surge forward.
It was a tense moment. The boys resolved to sell their lives dearly.
Then two things occurred. The leader of the newcomers and only white man of the group—the same man who had acted as their guide and betrayed them—halted the onrush with a gesture of authority. And Mr. Temple, pallid from the effects of the kick in the stomach, pulled himself to his feet and stood swaying in front of the boys.
“We surrender,” said Mr. Temple, “but I warn you not to ill-treat us.”
The leader nodded, turned to the group behind him, bade two of their number step aside, and the others to leave. Grumbling and unwilling but evidently cowed by his authority, they obeyed.