The hammering down below kept on steadily for an hour or so. Then there
was silence for quite a while, I expect while The Man’s army was getting
rested and recovering its grit. It was beginning to grow dusk before we
saw a single Japanese.
Mark held a council of war. It wasn’t much of a council, if that word
means people talking together and offering one another advice. Mark did
most of the talking and all of the advising. It wasn’t because he
wouldn’t accept advice. No, sir. He wasn’t that sort of fellow at all.
He was always glad to listen and to change his own plan if somebody
offered a better one, but right now he was the only one that had any
plan. _Mostly_ he was. The rest of us fellows were pretty good at doing
things we were told, and maybe we were up to the average on brains, but
Mark was a little out of the ordinary there. Anyhow, he had a different
kind of brain. It was the kind that can’t help scheming and figuring. So
the council of war consisted mainly in his telling us what to do.
“We can’t hold this l-l-line of defenses,” says he. “It won’t be long
before we have to make a strategic retirement to the next floor. That’s
our last stronghold, and it’s the s-s-strongest. We can hold out there
till—”
“Till it rains, I hope,” says I. “Then we’ll get a drink.”
“Is that still on your mind, Tallow? Well, the first minute I have to
spare I’ll get you a drink.”
“Is that a promise?” says I.
“Yes,” says he.
That settled it. If Mark Tidd said he’d get water, then water would be
got. I was satisfied.
“How you goin’ to get it?” Plunk says.
“I don’t know yet,” says Mark. Now wasn’t that just like him! He knew
there must be _some_ way of getting water up there, and he was sure, if
there was a way, he could find it. I wish I was as confident of myself
as that. Maybe that’s why Mark is more thought of by folks than we
are—because he never gives up, and because he knows if anybody can do a
thing he can do it, too.
“We’ll have to r-r-retreat,” says he. “Maybe not at the next attack, but
soon. If The Man uses the scheme I’m thinkin’ of we’ll retreat right
sudden.”
“Will we have time,” says I, “to run up the stairs and pull them up
after us?”
“I’ve f-f-fixed it so we will,” says he. You see, he’d thought it all
out and was ready for anything. Of course he did make mistakes once in a
while, like forgetting the water, but that was seldom. As Uncle Ike Bond
said when he bought a citron because his bad eyesight made him think it
was a muskmelon, “The best of us’ll make mistakes.”
“Now,” says Mark, “we want to know when to r-r-retreat. The two guards
want to know b-because they’ve got farther to run. We’ll have to have a
signal. The minute they hear it, or you hear it, forget everything but
how to get to the t-t-top of those stairs the quickest way there is. The
signal will be two screeches like this.” He showed us, and they were
screeches for certain. A catamount would have been so proud of them he’d
have jumped out of his skin. I guess a catamount that could yowl like
that would be a sort of opera-singer among his folks, and they’d pay to
hear him perform.
“Will that do?” says Mark.
“Do?” says I. “Yell like that and we won’t have to retreat. It’ll scare
the Japs stiff so they’ll fall down-stairs and bu’st their necks.”
“All right,” says he. “You, Tallow, go and tell Motu and Binney.”
I went off to tell them. Motu was leaning on the railing, looking over,
when I got there.
“How’s business?” says I.
He looked at me sort of blank. Then he smiled so all his fine white
teeth showed between his lips. “Ha! Tallow, it is an American question.
I understand. To be sure. How is business? There has not been business.
I have not had a single—what do you say?—a single customer.” He stopped
and looked sort of disappointed. “You boys have had all the fighting,”
he says. “You fight for Motu, yet Motu has no part in it.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” says I. “Guardin’ is as important as
fightin’, and harder to do, I expect. Besides,” says I, “if you was
tryin’ to keep pirates from capturin’ a treasure you wouldn’t bring it
right up to the fightin’-line where they could grab it and run. No, sir,
you’d keep it back where it would be safe. Well, Motu, you’re our
treasure after a manner of speaking. We’re tryin’ to keep the Japanese
from takin’ you, so we want you back where they can’t haul you off in
the mix-up. That’s strategy.”
“Strategy maybe,” says he, “but not honorable strategy for the treasure.
Where others fight for you you should fight also for yourself, and not
in the rear rank, but in front. Let no man be struck a blow in your
defense that you yourself can take. So my father taught me.”
I sort of figured it out that Motu had the right sort of a father. My
grandfather fought in our war, and that’s exactly the sort of thing he
used to tell me. He was great on honor, granddad was. I told Motu about
him because I didn’t want him to think American boys weren’t taught
about honor as much as Japanese boys were.
“You’ll get enough fightin’ before we’re through with this,” says I, “so
don’t worry about takin’ a little rest.”
Then I went on and told Binney, who hadn’t seen any of the enemy,
either. He was worried, though, about a spruce-tree that grew pretty
close to a window. He’d been thinking that maybe a man could climb it
and get out on a limb that almost touched the wall, and from there jump
smack through a window. It looked possible to me.
By this time it was getting quite dark and I hurried back to the stairs
where Plunk and Mark were sitting. Mark had another big sandwich for
each of us, so I carried supplies to Motu and Binney. Both of them asked
for water, so I told them we were just out of it, but would have a fresh
supply soon. Binney kicked a little about it, but Motu just smiled and
said, “If we have to have water your Mark Tidd will get it.”
I went back to my place again. Mark had a couple of blankets spread on
the floor. “Two men s-s-sleep,” says he. “You and Plunk take t-t-turns
with Binney and Motu.”
“How about you?” says I.
“No sleep for me to-night,” he said, with that look around his jaw that
means there’s no use arguing. “I’m the general of this army and my
b-b-business is to be on the job.”
“That’ll give you a little time to think about gettin’ water, then,”
says I, for I was still considerable r’iled up about that.
Mark grinned like the cat that ate the canary-bird. He always grins like
that when he’s got the best of you, so I knew he had been figuring about
water and had found a way to get it.
“There’s a f-f-five-pound pancake-flour bag up with the provisions,”
says he. “Fetch it down.”
I ran up and got it, and then sat down to see what was going to happen.
Mark took the bag and measured it careful. Then he took some of the
clothes-line wire—there was about six feet of it left—and twisted and
turned and braided it into a hoop just a mite smaller than the top of
the bag. When that was done he put it inside the bag about two inches
down and folded the thick, tough paper over it. Then, with string out of
his pocket, he wound it over and over, punching holes every little ways
to pass the string through. He was mighty careful and particular about
it. When it was all done he had a bucket that would hold a good gallon
of water. Another short piece of wire made the handle.
“There,” says he, “that’ll hold water.”
“Yes,” says I, “but the water’s quite a step down. How you goin’ to
reach it?”
“The enemy f-f-furnished us somethin’ to reach it with,” says he,
pointing to the two-by-four we had captured. “That’ll reach, I
calc’late.”
Sure enough, it would. All we had to do was drive a nail in the end and
make a hook of it to hold the pail. I was so thirsty I could hardly
wait, so I grabbed the contraption as soon as Mark finished it and
rushed off to where I could reach water. It worked a little clumsy, but
it did the business. I didn’t have much trouble filling the pail.
You’d better believe water never tasted so good before. Mark was
perfectly willing to drink, and Plunk got away with about a quart. Motu
didn’t act very excited about it, though he drank hearty enough.
“I told you,” says he, “that your Mark Tidd could do it.”
Binney was last to get a drink. That half-emptied the pail.
“Pour the rest in another paper bag,” says Mark, “and tie it with a
string. Hang it up-stairs. M-m-most of it will stay long enough. Then
f-fill your bucket again and hang that up-stairs. We won’t run any more
risks.”
“Listen,” says Plunk.
It was now pretty dark. The moon showed just a little, but there were
clouds which kept covering it up, and when they did you couldn’t see a
dozen feet away. But you could hear. We listened like Plunk told us to,
and heard several men scurrying around down below. Then the moon popped
out the clearest it had been and we saw!
“My scheme,” says Mark, under his breath. “I knew he’d f-f-figger it
out.”
It was a scheme, all right. The Man had made a regular lean-to of
planks. It was just as wide as the stairs and high enough to cover a
man. Other planks about three feet long made a roof to it so we couldn’t
get at the attackers from above. One man was right behind it, and all
four of the others were close to him, hanging on to a two-by-four that
pushed it. It was a sort of battering-ram except that you didn’t batter
with it—you just pushed it along in front of you and shoved anybody out
of the way. There wasn’t a way in the world for us to stop them.
“Better screech them screeches,” says I to Mark.
“Just a minute,” says he. “Help me with that b-b-barrel.”
Mark had the barrel half-full of heavy stuff. The barrel itself was one
of those big oil barrels, and weighed about a ton. We rolled it to the
top of the stairs.
“Wait till I give the w-w-word,” says he. “When I let out the signal,
give her a shove.”
We waited till the portable fort was a quarter of the way up, then Mark
opened his mouth and gave the two screeches. They were better than the
sample he had given us before. At that we both pushed and down rushed
and bumped and clattered the barrel. It got under way and began to jump.
The last five steps before it reached the movable fort never were
touched at all. The barrel just seemed to come to life and leap at the
enemy like it was trained. Maybe it was. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mark
had found some way to train it.
Anyhow, it jumped at those Japs and hit their shelter just above the
center. Maybe it didn’t hit it. Wow! That barrel and the things in it
must have weighed a couple of hundred pounds and it was going fast.
“Scoot!” says Mark to Plunk and me.
I stopped just long enough to see the shelter smash backward and break
away from the two-by-four that pushed it. The barrel went right over it,
and you should have seen those Japanese hop out of the way. Then I
headed up like I’d been sent for in a hurry. Plunk beat me, Binney was
right at my heels, next came Motu, and Mark brought up the rear.
“Quick!” says he. “Haul up the r-r-rope.”
We grabbed her and pulled. It wasn’t a second too soon for The Man
himself came bounding up the stairs below and made a jump for the end of
the stairs we were pulling up. He caught it, too, and hung there.
“Motu,” says Mark, “ask him to g-g-get off.”
Motu grinned and grabbed his lance. You could see he had a job he liked.
He went to where he could reach The Man, whose hands were now on a level
with our floor, and reached under. I saw him draw back his lance for a
jab, and the jab went home. Right into The Man’s stummick it went.
“Wourgh!” says The Man, or something that sounded like it, and dropped
like a stone. He sat where he fell, or rather rolled over on his side
with both arms folded across his beltline, and there he stayed till a
couple of his men came and picked him up. He didn’t act very chipper for
ten minutes.
“Here we are,” says Mark, fastening the wire that held up the stairs.
“They can’t cut this, and they can’t g-g-get to us with l-ladders. If
they come they’ve got to come through the floor, in an airship, or up
these s-stairs.”
“It is a strong place to defend,” says Motu. “But hunger and thirst are
stronger. For a time we can hold out. Maybe days, maybe a week, but in
the end we must give up. Is it not so, Mark Tidd?”
“I’ve got an idee,” says Mark, “that any givin’ up that’s d-d-done won’t
be done by us.”