"That hand was a dummy," decided Burgoyne. "The whole time the Chink was lying on the deck waiting for me. When I get hold of that rifle again, I'll let him know what's what."
He scorned the idea of calling upon his comrades to throw him another rifle, nor would he entertain the suggestion that they should join in the scrap. Somehow it didn't seem quite British. The odds were level, and that appealed to his sense of fair play.
Keeping close to the deck, Burgoyne crawled to the base of the main-mast, thanking his lucky stars that nine inches of heavy oak faced with iron comprised the construction of the main-hatch coaming. That was sufficient to stop a bullet, otherwise Ah Ling would have raked the woodwork and rendered the Englishman's position untenable.
From the spider band of the main-mast Alwyn took a coil of light rope. With this he retraced his course, and, arriving at his "sniper's post", proceeded to throw a bight of the rope over the rifle until it engaged in the upturned bolt.
"That's the ticket!" he chuckled, as he retrieved the weapon. "Now, my festive Chink, you're going to have the time of your life."
Aiming at the lower part of the door at a height of a foot or eighteen inches from the deck, Burgoyne sent bullet after bullet crashing through the woodwork; then, varying the performance, he peppered the whole exposed front of the deck-house indiscriminately until he could see daylight through it.
Not a sight nor a sound of the Celestial could be seen or heard.
"No hurry," decided Alwyn, bearing in mind his former rashness. "By Jove! This is where a stink-bomb would come in jolly handy."
"When you've done smashing up his happy home, old bird!" sung out Mostyn from the dinghy, "where do we come in?"
"You sit tight," replied Burgoyne. "The Chink very nearly pipped me. He's as artful as a waggon-load of monkeys. I'll let you know when you're wanted."