"'TOP LITTLEE!"
Stan Lynn had good reason to stare, for at the sharp report of the rifle
poor Wing's aspect of being a part of the gable disappeared instantly.
He sprang to his feet with one hand clapped to his chest, the other
reaching round to his back, both busily searching for his wound, as he
uttered a dismal cry.
The next moment both hands were in the air clutching for something to
hold on by so as to save himself, but clutching in vain. For his foot
as he stood erect had slipped on the sharp slope of the tiled gable-end,
and in far less time than it has taken to describe the catastrophe, the
poor fellow had fallen upon his back and was sliding rapidly down.
But he had not quite lost his presence of mind. Making a tremendous
effort he wrenched himself round so as to bring his chest underneath;
and as he went on gliding down, Stan could see him striving hard to get
a hold with his crooked fingers, which he vainly tried to drive in
between the interstices of the tiles. They were too closely fitted,
however, and it was not till he was three parts down that he was able to
check his downward course.
"That's right!" shouted Blunt hoarsely, for, though Stan strove to
speak, no sound came from his parched lips. "Hold on; we'll soon help
you."
Then, turning to the first of the men, whom the report of the rifle had
brought rushing out to make for their posts to repel the imaginary
attack:
"Run up, some of you, with a rope. Get up on to the roof-ridge and
lower one of the men down to get hold of him."
There was a rush back into the warehouse, but before half the men were
inside, Wing's weight had proved to be too much for his fragile hold.
He slipped suddenly and glided down sideways till one foot caught
beneath the eaves, and he made here a desperate effort to save himself,
brought his other foot alongside the first, with his soft heels in the
gutter, and then tried to turn over to plant his toes where his heels
rested; but he only succeeded in dislodging them, so that he came down
with his crooked fingers clutching in the hollow, and there he held on.
"That's right; hold tight!" cried Blunt again. "Help coming."
Stan would have added his voice could he have found utterance, but he
could only think and stand half-paralysed at the sight of the poor
fellow swinging by his crooked fingers to the frail gutter.
Had he remained perfectly still, it is possible that he might have hung
till some one descended to him with a rope; but most probably the
Chinaman felt his fingers giving way, and before they were dragged from
their hold by his weight he made one more desperate effort to perform an
impossibility. For, contracting his muscles, he slowly drew himself up
by his arms till his chin was on a level with his hands, and meanwhile
his toes were tearing at the wall to find a footing--trying, but finding
not, for the soft boot-toes kept gliding over the wall beneath the
eaves. Once by a desperate struggle he got what seemed to be a firm
footing, but it was only to hasten the disaster, for all at once as
those below gazed upward they saw that the poor fellow's knees were
close up to his chest, and he hung like a stout package by his arms. At
the same moment there was an encouraging shout, and one of the most
active of the clerks, bearing a coil of rope, and followed by several
more, appeared on the ridge.
"That's right," roared Blunt. "Be smart! Let yourself be lowered down.
Hold hard, Wing!"
His words were supplemented by a shout from below, where half the
employees of the warehouse were assembled, all impotent to render any
assistance to the unfortunate sentry.
Instantly following the shout, which sounded to Stan as if meant
derisively, the end came, for, as suggested, Wing's desperate effort
only meant putting greater strain upon the fingers in the guttering,
forcing them right off, so that he fell like a light bundle rapidly
through the air fully thirty feet, and as he reached the bottom, passing
out of sight behind the wall, but really to rebound about a couple of
feet, and then lie all of a heap just inside the little bastion so
lately made.
The dull thud which struck heavily upon Stan's ears acted like magic.
The moment before the lad had stood looking upward feeling quite
paralysed. Then every nerve and muscle quivered, and, rifle in hand, he
bounded to the bale wall, climbed over, and, wild with excitement,
dashed to where poor Wing lay, to drop upon one knee by the sufferer,
whom he fully expected to find lying dead.
The same thought was shared by those who followed the lad and climbed to
the top of the wall, for directly after Blunt said hoarsely:
"Lift his head gently, Lynn. Is he dead?"
"No--not bit dead," said the poor fellow in a plaintive voice as he
slowly turned his face towards the questioner and opened his eyes.
"Only velly bad indeed. Bloken all to bit. Poo' Wing! I velly solly
fo' him."
The removal of the painful tension suffered by the lookers-on was so
sudden that to a man they broke out into a loud laugh. Not a
mirthful-sounding explosion of mirth, for it was painful and hysterical.
Every one had expected to hear Stan answer "Yes" to the manager's
question, while the supposed-to-be-dead man's statement sounded
inexpressibly droll, and his next words, in spite of a strong feeling of
commiseration, only brought forth another burst that really was now one
of merriment. For the poor fellow said piteously:
"Not'ing to laugh at. Wing velly, velly bad."
"They don't mean it," whispered Stan, whose own face was still
convulsed. "They laugh because they are so glad you are not killed."
"Here, let me come," cried Blunt. "I am a bit of a doctor in my way;"
and he too bent down on one knee. "Now, Wing, my lad, cheer up. Let's
see what's the matter with you."
"Plea' don't touch, Misteh Blunt," cried the poor fellow piteously.
"Tumble down such long way. Come all to piecee."
"No, no; not so bad as that. Come, come; I'll be gentle with you. I
want to see where you're hurt before I have you lifted up."
"No, no; plea' don't," sobbed the poor fellow, with the tears running
down his cheeks. "Not quite dead yet."
"No, no; of course not."
"Don't let the boys buly me yet a bit. Velly dleadful; makee poo' man
flighten."
"Bury you? Nonsense! Who's going to bury a live man?"
"Only half alive. Oh deah! oh deah! Oh-h-h!"
"Come, come; be a man," said Blunt gently as he softly raised the poor
fellow's head, manipulating it gently the while, and laying it down
again. "Does that hurt very much?"
"N-no," sighed the sufferer. "Not head bleak. All to piecee evely
place, not head."
"Then you're not going to die, I hope," said Blunt. "Your skull is not
fractured, and the hinges of your neck are not broken."
"You suah?"
"Quite sure, my lad. You wouldn't be talking like that if your neck was
broken."
"P'l'aps not," sighed Wing. "Bleak to bit evelywheh, no alm, no leg.
Oh deah! oh deah!"
"Now then, I want to lay you out straight so as to feel your body all
over."
"Lay stlaight?" cried the poor fellow, with more animation. "Leady to
buly poo' Wing?"
"Nonsense!" cried Stan warmly. "No one thinks of such a thing. Let me
lay that arm close beside you."
"No, no," sighed the poor fellow. "Wing don't wantee see aim come off."
"It won't come off, my man," said Blunt kindly.--"That's right, Lynn.
Well done! It's not broken. Neither is this," he continued as, with
the patient still groaning, the other arm was tenderly examined and laid
straight.--"Hurt you very much, Wing?"
"Not velly much. Bloken off. Wing can't feel."
Stan glanced at Blunt, and saw him frown and look more stern as he met
his companion's eyes to exchange a look full of intelligence.
"Now his legs," said Blunt then. "Both together. Lay them out
straight."
This was done, Wing groaning softly the while.
"Bones all right," said Blunt half to himself; "joints move easily--no
dislocation. That hurt you very much, Wing?"
"N-no. Hultee evelywheh else."
"Does that mean the spine is injured?" whispered Stan anxiously.
"I'm afraid so," was the reply.
Wing looked sharply from one to the other.
"Young Lynn say bote leg bloke light off?"
"No," said Blunt, smiling; "he didn't say anything of the kind. They're
quite sound. Now then, I will not hurt you much. I'm going to feel
whether your ribs are broken."
"No, no; much betteh let be. All bloke littlee bit."
"I don't think so," said Blunt, passing his hands softly down the man's
sides over and over again from armpits to hips. "Now breathe, Wing."
"Wing keep on bleathe lil bit longeh. Not dead yet."
"`Not dead yet: see the _Quiver_,'" said Blunt softly to himself, as,
incongruously enough, there came to his mind the words on one of the
great bills which appeared upon nearly all the hoardings in London many
years ago.
"Breathe again, Wing," continued Blunt. "Draw in as long a breath as
you can.--Well, do you hear me?"
"Wing 'flaid," was the reply.
"Afraid? What of?"
"'Flaid nevah bleathe again; so bad."
"Stuff! Do as I tell you."
"Oh deah! oh deah!" sighed the poor fellow as he obeyed, and retained
his breath for some time.
"Well, does that hurt you very much?"
"N-no, n-no," sobbed the man. "Not velly much."
"Then there are no broken ribs, Lynn. Look here."
As he spoke Blunt passed his hands firmly about the sufferer's chest,
even going so far as to press the ribs inward, without eliciting more
than a faint groan.
"There!" said Blunt; "nothing is broken. The injury must be to the
back."
"Yes," said Wing, uttering a whimper. "Back. Velly, velly bad."
"Come, let's see," said Blunt. "We'll have you carried into the big
office now, and knock you up a bed of some kind. Give me your hand.--
Take the other, Lynn, and let's raise him up into a sitting posture.
Gently, mind."
"No, no; plea', plea' don't!"
"Why not?" said Blunt, who was watching the man keenly.
"Back bloke. Come in two bit. Bleak light off. Leave poo' Wing leg
lie all alone."
"Well, well!" said Blunt gently; "never mind; be a man. If you come
right in two we'll fasten you up tightly again with sticking-plaster.
You'll soon grow together again."
"Eh?" exclaimed Wing, looking sharply from one to the other, but looking
in vain, for Stan took his cue from his companion and preserved a
perfectly serious countenance.
"Now," said Blunt; "both together. Lift."
Wing uttered a louder groan than ever as he was drawn right up into a
sitting posture and lowered down again.
"Did that hurt much?"
"Oh, velly, velly much!" said Wing, with the tears trickling down his
plump face.
"Yes, you are a good deal shaken, Wing, my man, but you are not broken
in half."
"Misteh Blunt suah?"
"Yes, quite," replied Blunt. "You have had a wonderful escape from
being killed. You are hurt, of course, but I believe that if you were
helped you could stand right up."
"Wing velly much 'flaid."
"I suppose so, but you are going to try."
"Must?"
"Yes, you must.--Now, Lynn, take one side; I'll take the other.--Come,
Wing; just for a minute. Up with you like a man."
Wing gave each a piteous look, but said nothing, as he was again raised
into a sitting position, and then allowed his arms to be drawn over his
helpers' shoulders as they bent down over him and rose together, brought
him up standing, and held him there.
"Now then, you can feel that you are not broken to bits, Wing?" said
Blunt.
"Yes; but hult velly bad."
"Of course it hurt, Wing; but you'll soon get better."
"Get betteh? No go die and be bulied?"
"You'll not die and be buried this time.--Do you see what saved him,
Lynn?"
"Yes--of course. I see now. He must have come down upon those piled-up
silk-bales."
"To be sure; and they are so yielding and springy that they threw him
off again so that he fell on to the stones inside."
"Yes," said Wing piteously; "tumblee all togetheh. Come bump, bump on
silk-bales. Flow um off again on to stones and bang back dleadful bad."
"Yes; a very narrow escape for you," said Blunt firmly.--"Bring a board
here, some of you."
Two of the coolies hurried off, to return in the fast-increasing gloom
with a broad plank, which was set down and Wing then lifted carefully
upon it, bearing the moving very well, and only uttering a groan or two.
"Now carry him into the office.--We'll make that the hospital, Lynn."
"'Top littlee! 'Top littlee!" cried Wing.
"What's the matter?" said Blunt sharply, speaking as if he felt that he
had spent enough time on his patient.
"Wing wantee say much 'blige, t'ank you. Um feel deal betteh now."
"That's right," said Blunt.
"Wing velly much 'flaid when he fall. Much mo' 'flaid when come down
bump, bang on stones. Misteh Blunt, young Lynn, makee feel velly happy.
Not bloke all bits. Going to live long time."
"That's right," said Blunt brusquely. "But look here; all your trouble
came from your going to sleep when you were on sentry."
"Yes," said Wing dolefully. "Velly muchee solly. Sun hot--velly
hungly--velly dly mouth. Can't help go 'sleep. Misteh velly angly poo'
Chinaman?"
"Not very, Wing, for you have been severely punished."
"Wing nevah do so no mo'e."
"That's right," said Blunt, who hurried away as soon as he had seen the
injured man lying comfortably; and Stan was about to follow, but Wing
caught his sleeve and signed to him to bend down.
"Young Lynn know who shot Wing?" he whispered.
"Yes," said the lad frankly.
"Young Lynn tell Wing."
"Yes, some day," replied the lad, who felt the blood flush to his face,
but it was now so dark in the office with the blocked-up windows and the
coming night that the questioner could not see.
"Young Lynn tell Wing some day. Wing betteh now. Thought bloken allee
piecee. Not bloken allee piecee. Don't ca'e mandalin button now."
"That's right," said Stan. "Look, they're bringing you some bread and
tea. Think you can eat and drink?"
"Velly much indeed," said the Chinaman.
"Begin at once, then," said Stan. "Here, I must go."
He hurried after Blunt, and as he went to where the latter was standing
sweeping the dimly seen surroundings with his glass, it suddenly
occurred to him that after firing the shot to startle Wing he had not
replaced the empty cartridge.
He opened the breech, and at the sound of its being closed upon the
cartridge Blunt turned upon him suddenly.
"Hullo, young fellow!" he cried. "Going to fire again to startle me?"
"No," replied Stan. "I was thinking that I might have to shoot again,
and it would not do to find that my rifle was not loaded."
"No," said Blunt thoughtfully. "I'm sorry, though, that I gave you that
order. For a time I was quite under the impression that you had aimed
at and hit the poor fellow. But he'll soon be right again."
"I hope so," said Stan. "Can you see anything with the glass?"
"Just the dim country, that's all. There! we'll set our sentries and
let all who can be spared lie down for a rest till we change guard, for
we must be military now. I shall take the first part of the night for
visiting the posts every hour; you will have to take the second half.
Mind, you will have to visit each sentinel and see that he is awake and
watchful. You understand?"
"Quite," was the reply, given in a firm voice, though the lad could not
help shrinking a little from the great responsibility about to be placed
upon his shoulders.
"Come along, then."
Stan followed, and a short time after half-a-dozen sentries were leaning
upon their rifles in different places, keeping a strict watch upon the
river, the direction from which danger was most likely to come; while,
his part of the duties performed, the lad went to lie down on the bare
boards in the office, near to where Wing was sleeping soundly. As he
listened to the man's hard breathing a feeling of envy came over him.
He wished that he too could sleep and forget the danger, if only for an
hour. He was completely fagged with the day's exertions; the heat was
great, and his brain was in a state of wild activity which made him feel
that he had never been so wakeful before in his life.
All was very still without, and as he turned upon the hard boards it
seemed that every one must have gone off to sleep at once, while he was
growing more and more wakeful. Now and then he started up on one arm to
listen to a strange cry that suggested the approach of the enemy; but
after two or three repetitions he came to the conclusion that it must
have come from some riverside bunting, heron, or crane, and he lay down
again, but only to ask himself whether he might not just as well get up
and join Blunt, to share the night-watch, for he was more sure than ever
that it was impossible to sleep under such circumstances as these.
"Yes," he said to himself, with a feeling of satisfaction, "I'll do
that;" and it seemed to him that he got up to go and join the manager
out on the dark wharf, where he could see him standing on a pile of
stones close to the river-edge, leaning upon his rifle and gazing
up-stream for the first sight of the enemy who might at any moment come.
Blunt turned upon him at once in the darkness, looked down, stretched
out one hand and caught him by the shoulder, to say in a sharp whisper:
"Now then, my lad, time's up!"