“His excellency is not certain whether there is powder there or not,” replied the interpreter.
“Hand me the key,” commanded Dave. “I will look for myself.”
At this there was more prolonged conversation between Sin Foo and his august though at present dejected chief.
“Hand me the key,” Ensign Darrin insisted brusquely, “or I shall take other measures.”
Only a few words passed in Chinese this time. Even that had to be shouted, for the clamor beyond the walls was indescribable, and the roar of machine guns and the rattle of navy rifles was all but deafening. Sin Foo, fumbling under his own long robes, produced a massive bronze key.
“Good enough,” said Dave, “provided this be the right key.” Then, turning to one of the sailors, who had come down into the compound on an errand Dave asked:
“You have an electric searchlight with you, haven’t you?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Then come with me, on the jump.”
Both hastened over to the low building that Dave had imagined to be the magazine. The key fitted, the lock yielded easily. Officer and man stepped inside.