“D—d—d—don’t! Don’t shoot ’em. Fight ’em!”
“Blast you—and shut up!” snapped the Croucher. “It’s all right. It’ll just stop ’em. It’s blanks.”
He raised the gun to the broken pane and fired, twice. It did stop ’em. It wasn’t blank. It was ball.
The leading officer went down and out. The next man took his bullet in the thigh. Both tumbled ridiculously, and the crowd behind gyrated on them like a bioscope “comic.” Those who were able sorted themselves out and ran zealously home. The others remained to struggle and to pray.
“Bloody fool!” cried the old man. “You done it now. Oh, Christ. We both done a murder now. Gawd ’elp us!”
“Damn good job!”
Stumpley, the elder, collapsed in his chair again, his face white and damp with sweat. The Chinks waited, as ever, impassive. The Croucher stood out, alert, commanding.
“Bolt the door,” said the Croucher.
“Clamp the windows,” said the Croucher.
“Light the lamp,” said the Croucher.