“Come wiz me!” cried M. Pourmont. “I vill show you vat ve do—nous ici.” And snatching up a bunch of keys he led Brachey out about the compound. He opened one door upon what appeared to be a heap of old clothes.
“Des sac â terres,” he explained.
Brachey picked one up. “Ah,” he remarked, coldly interested—“sand-bags!”
“Yes, it is zat. Sand-bag for ze vail. Ve have ze femme Chinoise—ze Chinese vimmen—sew zem all every day. And you vill look...” He led the way with this to a corner of the grounds where the firm loess had been turned up with a pick. “It is so, Monsieur Brashayee, partout. All is ready. In von night ve fill ze bag, ve are a fort, ve are ready.... See! An' see!”
He pointed out a low scaffolding built here and there along the compound wall for possible use as a firing step. Just outside the wall crowding native houses were being torn down. “I buy zem,” explained M. Pourmont with a chuckle, “an' I clear avay. I make a glacis, nest ce pas?” On several of the flat roofs of supply sheds along the wall were heaps of the bags, ready filled, covered from outside eyes with old boards. In one building, under lock and key, were two machine guns and box on box of ammunition. Back in M. Pourmont's private study was a stand of modern rifles.
“You vill see by all zis vat is ze t'ought of myself,” concluded the genial Frenchman. “Ze trouble he is real. It is not safe to-day in Hansi. Ze Société of ze Great Eye—ze Lookair—he grow, he fait l'exercice, he make ze t'reat. You vill not go to T'ainan, alone. It is not right!”
Brachey was growing impatient now.
“Oh, yes,” he said, more shortly than he knew. “I will go on.”
“You have ze arm—ze revolvair?”
Brachey shook his head.