I don't think that I liked him very much.
All this time the noise outside was awful—rifles firing, crowds of people yelling—and stones began to patter against the shutters. The old Scotchman couldn't wait any longer, wrapped the little man in a long Chinese coat, lifted him off his feet, told Miller to bring Sally along, and ran out of the house. "So long as the boss's people keep firing, it's all right," he told me; and then I saw Miller lift Sally in his arms, in spite of her struggles, and we all followed, stones flying past our heads and rebounding from the walls. We went across the garden under those trees, and made our way back to that small door. The Scotchman put Mr. Hobbs on his feet, and I heard him trying to get the key in the lock; but just as he was going to open it, there was the sound of a whole lot of people running towards it, and they threw their shoulders against it and began talking very softly.
I was very frightened again, and I heard the Scotchman moan: "Too late! We're done for!" and we all fled back to the house.
The front of it was now all lighted up with a red glare, showing above the top of the wall.
"They're setting fire to the huts," he cried; "go up to the top room. Take them up there, bar the door at the front, and block it up with tables—anything." And he rushed off, came back for his revolver, which he had given to Martin, and disappeared.
"Guess Sally Hobbs ain't a ten-cent doll," I heard her sob. "You can put me down right away." She led us along some passages, up some steps, and then to the foot of a ladder. The little man got up it like a monkey, and she followed him.
"Draw it up, and let it down when you hear us call," I sang out; and then we went back and began to pull along tables and benches and boxes, everything we could find, and piled them up behind the door in the front of the house. Before we had finished, the Scotchman came running up with his hands over his head. "We're fair lost! God be merciful to us! The boss's men want to know where he is, and won't hold out many more minutes unless he turns up. They want to open the gates; say they'll get their throats cut if they don't. Jorgensen has been killed—down in the town—two hours ago—down by that six-inch gun."
"Can't you do anything?" I asked quickly.
"No, mon, they hate me; and I fear they've killed the boss, and no one else can keep them in hand. They're all round us, and they've tasted blood, and the mandarins themselves couldn't stop them.
"Hark!" he said, "they're beating down the little door in the garden wall. Oh, God, they'll be right here in a moment!"