"KEEP UP THE FIRING."
"Gone!" gasped Stan as he looked down into the seething darkness.
"Don't stand talking, boy!" cried his father angrily. "Fire--fire to
keep the enemy off. Be careful--be quick!"
He set the example, keeping up a steady delivery of shots from his
revolver, Stan giving shot for shot, but with his hand trembling so that
he could not take aim. Then all at once, to his intense delight, the
firing seemed to be answered from out of the darkness below, but against
the enemy, it being plain after the first shot that Uncle Jeff had
regained his feet and had joined in the pistol practice with such effect
that for the moment the enemy took to flight.
"Keep up the firing," shouted Uncle Jeff from out of the darkness; and
his order was obeyed, while the speaker seized the ladder lying upon the
ground and succeeded in raising it erect and then letting the top lean
against the window.
In another minute the sill was reached; and this time, being more upon
his guard, Uncle Jeff succeeded in maintaining his balance as he thrust
the ladder away again, for it to fall with a heavy, splintering crash
which broke it quite in two, just as the mob of assailants came rushing
back again, ready to attack the besieged with all their might.
"Howl away, you ruffians!" cried Uncle Jeff as he climbed in again, for
just then a yell of disappointment arose from the enemy as they found
the ladder broken. But directly after they had seized the longer piece
and reared that up, to begin mounting afresh; but, to the great relief
of the attacked, it was too short, and the first man could only hold on
by the window-sill and try to drag himself up.
He managed to get a good hold with one hand, while with the other, from
which a great knife hung by means of a piece of cord, he, after gripping
his weapon, smashed in the lower panes of glass, and then began hacking
at the window-bars.
"Stand back, Stan," cried Uncle Jeff, "or he'll get a cut at you with
that knife. Do you hear?"
Stan heard, but too late, for in his excitement he had seized his
revolver by the muzzle so as to use the butt like a club, and rushed
forward to the rugged opening.
He could see the big Chinaman as he hacked away, but for the moment the
man did not see him. Then, with an angry snarl, he threw back the blade
of his heavy knife till the top of it touched his shoulder, and struck
with all his might at the lad's unguarded head.
For the moment it seemed as if Stan's career was at an end. But first
blow in fighting means a great deal, and certainly it did here, for the
butt of the pistol came down with a crash on the fingers of the
Chinaman's left hand, which was snatched away completely numbed. The
cut from the knife fell short, its deliverer dropping sharply downward
on to the man close below him, making him give way in turn, and sending
the weight of two men upon the third, who involuntarily joined in
loading the fourth, who in turn helped to sweep the fifth from the
ladder, which the next moment was quite clear.
"Bravo, Stan!" cried Uncle Jeff.--"Now, Oliver, old lad, let's get the
dining-table up edgeways against the window and fire from behind it--
Quick!--That's the way; let it rest with its legs sideways on the
floor."
The heavy wood table made a splendid breastwork, though as soon as it
was reared up across the window it shut out half the dim light, which
was just enough to enable the defenders to see their way. And now, in
obedience to Uncle Jeff's hurriedly issued command, exhausted
cartridge-cases were withdrawn, and the barrels rested upon the edge of
the table so as to steady the aim the next time a head appeared.
"What's to be the next thing?" said Uncle Jeff.
"Fire," said his brother grimly.
"I hope not," whispered Stan; "but they're chopping again below. Hark!
you can hear them plainly."
"Yes, it sounds bad, my boy; but help must come soon. I say, Stan."
"Yes, uncle."
"I thought you were done for, and I hardly know now how you managed to
escape."
"It was close, uncle; but I'm afraid I must have crushed the man's
fingers horribly."
"Poor fellow!" said Uncle Jeff dryly.
"Here, Jeff," said his brother hoarsely; "do you smell that?"
"Oh yes, I can smell it; I did a minute ago. Look! that's smoke rising
past the window."
"Yes, I thought it was," said Stan huskily; "but I was in hopes that it
was from our firing."
"No," said Uncle Jeff; "it's from their firing, my lad; and with such an
ally we shall be done for.--Oliver, old fellow, we must beat a retreat."
"How can we? The wretches are at back and front."
"Yes, it is awkward, Oliver, but we shall not be able to stay here
long."
"We must make for the next floor."
"All the farther to jump when the bad time comes."
"Look out, father!--They're coming up again, uncle."
The table proved invaluable now, for as the enemy made a fresh attack,
swarming up the broken ladder, shots were delivered steadily, and the
blows struck by the savage wretches fell vainly upon the stout, hard
wood.
Three men fell headlong, but their places were taken directly by others,
who were maddened by disappointment, and made the table quiver with the
blows they managed to strike with the clumsy axes and swords they bore,
till the sharp crack of one of the revolvers tumbled the savage wretches
back upon their comrades below, who uttered a chorus of savage yells and
threats at every fresh mishap.
But still they came on, till after four final discharges there was a
sharp, cracking sound below; glass had evidently been shivered in one of
the lower windows, and a rush of flame illumined the smoke that now
floated up thickly, while for the first time the besieged had a view of
their fierce enemies who paused from their attack and stood back
watching the progress of the mischief they had done.
"Don't show yourselves in the light, either of you," said Uncle Jeff,
doing at once that which he had forbidden.
"Then don't you!" cried Stan's father. "Keep back, man--keep back!"
"Directly, old fellow," said his brother. "I only want to see what they
are about to do next. They're busy about something."
"I can see," cried Stan excitedly from where he crouched with one eye
over the edge of the table. "They're carrying the men who have fallen
away out of the light."
"What!" cried Uncle Jeff. "Why, so they are--thirty of them at least,
hard at work. Well, they have some humanity in them after all."
"It's almost too good to be true, Jeff," said Stan's father, "but I
believe they are giving us up for a bad job."
"You're right, Oliver," was the excited reply. "That's it; they find us
too hard nuts to crack."
"They feel that the fire will bring help, and that it is time to be off.
Come and help to remove the barricade; we must escape before the fire
takes a firmer hold."
"Wait a moment, both of you," cried Uncle Jeff. "Yes. Hurrah in a
whisper. Don't shout. It's all right; they are making off, and we are
saved."
"You forget the fire, Jeff," said Stanley's father sadly.
"Not I. Let's hurry down and see what mischief has been done."
"No, no," cried Stan excitedly as the glow from beneath increased; "they
are coming back again."
"What!" cried Uncle Jeff. "No, you are wrong this time; it is a fresh
mob from the busy part of the town, coming to see what plunder they can
get from the fire."
"Yes, I think you're right," said Stanley's father--"come to see our
ruin."
"Who's that talking about ruin?" said Uncle Jeff scornfully as, with
Stan's help, he took down the barricade and unfastened bar and bolt.
"Let's see what mischief the fire has done before we talk of that."
"Think of saving our lives," said Stan's father excitedly. "Never mind
the rest."
"But I do mind the rest," cried Uncle Jeff. "Come along, Stan. Never
say die! I don't believe the fire has had time to take much hold."
"What are you going to do?" cried Stan's father.
"Make a dash for the outer office, where the buckets hang. They're all
full."
"For heaven's sake take care! Don't run any risks."
Uncle Jeff did not seem to hear him, but ran down the stairs, to find
the lobby full of smoke. His first act was to dash out the panes of
glass in a fanlight to admit the fresh air, while directly after he
threw open the door, whose fastenings Stan had by his instructions
loosened.
"Keep back," cried Stan's father; "it is madness."
"Bah!" said Uncle Jeff, who had a better view of the state of affairs.
"Take a long breath and follow me."
In his excitement Stan had just one glimpse of the office interior,
where towards the window a great bonfire-like heap was blazing away,
licking the side about the opening, and forming a column of fire and
smoke which went wreathing and darting out, many-tongued, to rise high
in the night air, spreading out towards the wharf, and making the water
of the river beyond gleam, while a busy hum of many voices greeted them
from beyond the flame and smoke.
"We can do nothing, Jeff," cried Stan's father; "only escape for our
lives. It is madness to try and do anything."
"Then let's be mad, old fellow.--Bah! Nonsense! The draught carries
all the fire from us, and we can breathe easily. Rouse up, man!"
"I am roused up," cried Stan's father angrily; "but I must think of my
boy."
"Don't!" roared Uncle Jeff; "he's big enough to think for himself.--Now,
Stan, out through this door and get a bucket of water. Do as I do.--
Come on, Oliver."
"But the ceiling's catching. The place will be all in flames directly."
"Of course it will if we stand still and watch it. Come on."
He led the way through the door before him, making a sudden rush past
the blazing heap, and the other two followed, each lifting down a bucket
of water from the dozen hanging in a row on the pegs where Uncle Jeff's
foresight had had them placed ready for such an emergency. As soon as
he had seized his pair of buckets he stepped back through the brightly
illuminated door; and as Stan quickly followed him, the two stood
together, the boy feeling the scorching glow of the flames upon his
face.
"Let me do the throwing, Stan," said Uncle Jeff calmly, as he set one
bucket on the floor. "Stand back, and look out for the choking steam."
Then, with a clever whirl of the bucket, he sent its contents in a
curve, spreading as it were so much golden liquid metal over the flames,
a good sprinkling striking the woodwork on both sides of the window; and
in an instant the sharp hissing of the encounter between fire and water
was accompanied by a change, the fire still blaring furiously, but a
great cloud of steam being formed, the odour of which struck Stan as
abominable.
"Bravo!" cried Uncle Jeff. "Smell the hydrogen, my lad?"
As he spoke he set down his empty bucket, took up the full one at his
feet, and scattered its contents in the same way and with a similar
effect to that which had preceded it.
"Now," he cried, "set down your two buckets, my lad; take back my empty
ones, and bring two more.--Set yours down too, Oliver," he continued
coolly, "and do as the boy does--unless you want to play fireman."
"No, no; go on," said Stan's father. "Splendid, my dear boy! Go on."
"Yes, I'll go on," said Uncle Jeff coolly; "only one mustn't waste a
drop."
As he spoke he scattered the contents of both Stan's buckets, and then
those of his brother, so deftly over the blazing woodwork that by the
time the first six had been emptied the heart of Stan's father rose with
relief, for the change was wonderful. Then, as the second six
bucketfuls were being thrown, the first two right upward to the ceiling,
whence they began to drip in a steady shower whose drops hissed and
crackled where they fell, it became evident that very little further
effort would be needed to master the flames. In fact, now that the
twelve buckets were nearly all exhausted, Stan found himself able to
throw out the empty ones to some of the men who had gathered outside,
plenty of willing hands being ready to catch them; and under the
directions given in English by a loud voice outside, the men--coolies,
most of them--hurried down to the edge of the wharf where the river ran
muddily, and a second dozen buckets nearly finished the task.
"Stitch in time saves nine--eh, Stan?" cried Uncle Jeff merrily; "and a
tumblerful of water at the beginning of a fire is better than a hogshead
at the end.--H'm! there's plenty of help now, Oliver. We're not ruined
yet, old man."
"Thank heaven, no, Jeff!" said his brother. "I wish I had your coolness
and nerve."
"And I wish I had your nous, old fellow," replied his brother quietly.
"But there! we won't have the place flooded. I'll scatter about a
couple of dozen more buckets over the smoking and charred wood; and
then, as the mob gathering out there must be thirsty, we will distribute
a few strings of copper money among them to make up for the chance of
plunder that they have missed."
Friendly voices by the score were now heard making inquiries; the help
was plentiful, and in less than an hour clever carpenters were hammering
away, replacing the broken and burned windows with a lattice-work of
bamboo. Soon after a late-arriving party of the city guard were
pursuing the marauders, while a certain number were posted about the
offices and warehouse to protect the rich stores within from "friendly"
and unfriendly attack.
But there was no sleep for the Lynns that night, and daylight made such
a display of the effects of the night's business that Stan's first
disposition was to burst out laughing in his uncle's face.
"Eh? What is it? Why are you grinning at me, sir?" said the object of
Stan's mirth.
"I couldn't help it, uncle," said the lad apologetically. "Go and have
a wash, and just look at your face."
"Blackened a bit? Well, it does smart."
"Why, Jeff," cried Stan's father, "your eyebrows, eyelashes, and beard
are completely burned away."
"What!" cried Uncle Jeff angrily. "My beautiful great beard? Oh! that
comes of trying to save this wretched old house and store.--Why, you
heartless young ruffian," he roared as he met his nephew's mirthful
eyes, "you are laughing at my misfortune. Do you know what a loss like
this means to me?"
"Yes, uncle," replied Stan: "waiting until it grows again."
Uncle Jeff's countenance was a study as he stood staring at his nephew,
his forehead all in wrinkles, eyes screwed up, and lips compressed, till
all at once the muscles relaxed, his eyes opened widely, and a frank,
pleasant smile of satisfaction began to make him look genial and sunny.
"Why, of course!" he cried. "I was going to put it down as a dead loss.
I never thought of that, Stan. To be sure, it's only a bit of waiting
for it to grow again. Here, I can't go out in this state. Call Sin the
Wicked, Stan."
"Yes, uncle," was the reply, and Stan hurried out.