Then, after a few moments’ rapid talk, he turned to the lieutenant, a broad smile on his face.
“Just as I supposed. They are here to suppress outlaws. His general has gone to the forts to confer with Hang-Ki. He says the viceroy has refused to receive him.”
“Tell him,” Lieutenant Wilson said hurriedly, “that four of our sailors are held prisoners in the yamen, and that I am going to enter by force if they refuse to open the gate.”
“He says his men will not interfere,” the pilot returned, after a few hurried words with the Chinese officer. “In fact, I believe they’d gladly help us. This viceroy is not popular with the Manchus.”
Without more ado Lieutenant Wilson knocked loudly on the gate with the butt of his revolver. There followed a whispered consultation from beyond the gate and then a small slit slid back suddenly, revealing a pair of almond eyes, peering out suspiciously.
Before Langdon could speak, the Chinese officer had dismounted from his Tartar pony, and held the owner of the eyes in earnest conversation. A moment later the slit was closed sharply, and the officer recoiled angrily, muttering invectives at the rudeness of his rebuff.
“He says, break in the gate,” the pilot laughed in amusement.
Anticipating this move, Sydney had led a party of men to where a telegraph pole was lying on the ground, ready to replace a pole apparently condemned.
“It couldn’t have been handier,” he exclaimed, as the men lifting it moved it in position to batter in the gateway.
A few forceful blows, and the American sailors poured through the shattered gates.