"WAIT TILL THE WRETCHES COME."
The landing and stowing away of the cases of ammunition did not last
long, for every one joined in it, four men without orders taking charge
of a box that one could have carried with ease. In fact, they looked
more like a party of schoolboys bringing boxes of fireworks for a fete
than stern, energetic men fighting for the privilege of either carrying
or simply watching the little chests, the possession of which turned
them from helpless, unprotected beings, at the mercy of the next
piratical crew that came down the river, to strong, vigorous folk ready
for a fleet of junks and eager to fight to any desperate end.
The last case was placed in the little magazine, the trap-door shut down
and locked, and then there was a burst of cheering which sounded stifled
in the great stack-filled store.
"Why, I thought at one time," said Uncle Jeff merrily when the whole
party had filed out and the speaker was seated in Blunt's private room,
"that they were all going to break out in a triumphal war-dance."
Stan coloured and laughed.
"Well, uncle," he said, "the men were so excited that I don't see that
I, a boy, need mind owning how I felt. It was something like what one
used to experience when one had a present years and years ago."
"What!--ready to jump for joy, Stan?"
"Yes, uncle."
"I know the feeling," said Uncle Jeff, chuckling. "I remember just as
well as if it was yesterday. Ready to jump for joy; just, too, when I
was so weak from some fever that if I had been out of bed my legs
wouldn't have borne me, let alone jumped. I remember it was fine summer
weather, and my father had come down from London and brought me a new
fishing-rod--a perfect marvel to my young eyes--reddish-yellow bamboo,
with brass ferrules, and having one joint fitting beautifully into the
other so as to form a walking-stick; and in addition, just as he had
brought them and had them bundled up together in a parcel, there was
quite a heap of treasures tangled up together on the big sheet of paper
spread out upon the white counterpane, while I sat up with two pillows
to support my weak back. Oh, it was grand!
"Ha, ha, ha!" chuckled the great stalwart fellow, with his eyes lighting
up. "Didn't I have the window opened so that I could pull joint out
from joint and put them together, making the rod grow till I sat holding
it out through the drawn-up sash. All the time I was seeing in
imagination the great pond sheltered by the willows where the
water-lilies grew and the carp and tench sailed about underneath, every
now and then lifting a broad dark-green leaf or thrusting a stem aside,
with the glistening beetles gliding about on the surface as if they were
playing at engine-turning and describing beautiful geometric figures as
the big dragon-flies rustled their gauzy wings and darted here and there
in chase of flies.
"Then, too, I remember that I cried out against the window being shut,
because three parts of my rod stood out in the open while I was busy
examining a hank of Indian twist, beautiful steel-blue hooks of all
sizes, from tiny ones on gut to big, quaintly shaped large ones, loose,
but with eyes for attachment to the whipcord-like eel-line."
Uncle Jeff stopped short and turned with a droll look at his nephew.
"Here, Stan," he said, "you had better stop me or I shall go on with my
rigmarole about that line with the blue-and-white cork float and the
other with a quill, besides the one with the sharp-pointed porcupine
which stuck through the bedclothes into my leg. Then there was the box
of split shot with the lid which stuck, and when I got it off the
contents jumped out, to go everywhere, over the bed, into it, under it,
rattling between the jug and basin, and had to be hunted out. Then
there was that lovely landing-net that was so rarely required for a big
fish, but did splendidly to catch butterflies. And the fishing-creel,
too, and--Here, Blunt, my dear fellow, where's your box of Manilla
cigars?--Stan, get me a light. I must put something in my mouth or I
shall begin to tell you both about that little pike that I didn't catch
and that big carp that I did--I mean the one that seemed to my boyish
eyes as if he wore a suit of armour made of young half-sovereigns
overlapping one another from tail to head. Ah, Stan!" cried Uncle Jeff,
"you're a lucky young dog to be a boy, though you don't know it, and
never will till you grow up to be a man."
"Why, uncle," cried Stan, "haven't I just had to play at being a man and
handle the rifle?"
"I'm sorry to say yes, my lad, and I'd a great deal rather have heard
that you had spent your time wandering on the banks of this splendid
river, catching nothing, perhaps, but filling your young mind with
things to remember when you grow old. Ah! life's a very lovely thing if
human beings would not spoil it as they do."
Stan smiled at his uncle's words, but he did not see life in the same
light after his experiences at Hai-Hai and at the _hong_; though he was
quite ready to agree as to the way in which men spoil the world, and he
did say this, very tersely, later on:
"Especially Chinese pirates, uncle."
"Just so, my boy. But really it is all so beautiful here," said Uncle
Jeff, "that now I have been refreshed and feel rested, it is more than
ever hard to believe what a desperate fight you have had. I wish I had
been here."
"So do I, uncle," said Stan merrily; but he turned serious the next
moment. "No, I do not, uncle. It was very horrible, and you might have
been shot."
"Oh, I don't know, Stan. You and your men escaped pretty well.
However, matters were best as they were--eh, Blunt?"
"Certainly," said the manager. "The defence could not have been in
better hands."
"Oh, don't!" cried Stan, speaking like a pettish girl. "Now you are
both sneering at me."
This was of course denied, but the lad was only half-convinced, and too
glad to hear the conversation take a different turn.
"We must achieve some better means of defence, Blunt," said Uncle Jeff.
"You ought to have a good little piece of artillery here--something that
would tell well on a junk--sink her if it was necessary."
"That's what we were planning, uncle," cried Stan; "only we had some
rather peculiar notions."
The natural result of this remark was that the lad had to explain and
give a full account of his ideas, which was received with a grunt.
"There's a lot in it that sounds well, Stan," said Uncle Jeff after
listening for some time in silence, "but too much of the toy-shop and
Fifth of November about the rest. That kite-flying would never do."
"Why, it would be so simple, uncle!"
"Very simple indeed, my boy--Simple Simony. Why, Stan, how do you think
you are going to fly kites with the enemy in front?"
"But they're only to raise burning things like the pirates' stink-pots."
"I should have a deal more faith in something of that sort. But how
would you guide your kite with a fiery tail over the junk you meant to
destroy?"
"By means of the string. I could easily manage one, by pulling in and
letting out till it was just over a junk; and then I should pull the
second string, for of course there would be two; and then I should let
one go, and down would fall the fiery shell right upon the junk's deck."
"If it didn't go down splash into the river--eh?"
"Oh, I should manage it better than that," said the lad confidently.
"So I suppose," said Uncle Jeff sarcastically; "and of course the wind
would be setting in the right direction--that is to say, straight from
you and over the enemy's junks."
"Of course, uncle," said Stan confidently.
"Of course! Why, you too sanguine young enthusiast, the chances would
be five-and-twenty to one that the wind would not be right on the day
the enemy came. Won't do, Stan. Try again."
"Oh, I can't if you go on like that, uncle," said the lad in an
aggrieved tone. "You're not half such a good listener as Mr Blunt. He
thinks a good deal of my ideas."
"Then it was quite time I came. He'd spoil you. I will not, you may
depend. Now then, let's have a better idea than that."
"Well, uncle," said the boy rather grumpily, "I did think something of
having a boat always moored among the reeds--one filled with dangerous
combustibles--that I could steal up to after the junks had stopped to
kill and plunder us, apply a match, and, after lashing the rudder, cause
it to float down with the stream right amongst the junks and set them on
fire."
"Splendid idea!" cried Uncle Jeff, clapping his hands.
"You like that, then?" said Stan, brightening up.
"I think the idea would be glorious. Deadly in the extreme to the
enemy, but--"
"Oh uncle! don't say _but_," cried the lad, growing crestfallen again.
"Very well, my boy; I will not if you do not wish it. All the same,
however, there's a defect in it that would be fatal."
"What's that?" said the boy rather dismally.
"The Chinese are very weak-minded, but they're not idiots."
"No--of course not; but tell me what you mean."
"Pooh! Can't you see for yourself? The enemy would see that the
fire-boat was coming, and of course they'd either heave anchor or cast
their cables and slip away, if they didn't send your fire-boat to the
bottom with a shot from one of their swivel-guns. Try again."
"Oh, it's of no use to try, uncle."
"Yes, it is. You've got gumption enough to make a pot without a hole in
the bottom. You're last idea is manageable; the kite-flying was not.
Now then, you've got a better idea than that up your sleeve or in that
noddle of yours, I'm sure.--Hasn't he, Blunt?"
"Yes--a far better one."
"I thought so.--Now then, boy, let's have it."
Stan stood looking gloomy and silent.
"Well, why don't you go on?" said Uncle Jeff.
"Because I feel as if you are laughing at me for trying to invent
something."
"I am not, Stan--honour bright!" cried Uncle Jeff. "But even if I was
laughing, what right have you to kick against it? Every inventor gets
laughed at if he brings out something new, and then stupid people who
grinned because they had never seen anything like it before are the
first to praise. There! out with it, Stan; the third shot must be a
good one."
The gloom passed off the lad's countenance, and he laid bare his idea of
contriving a kind of torpedo to sink off the wharf and connect by means
of a wire with an electric battery in the office, ready for firing as
soon as one of the junks was well over it.
"Ah! that sounds better," cried Uncle Jeff eagerly; "but could it be
done?"
"Oh yes," said Blunt. "I think the idea is capital."
"So do I," said Uncle Jeff; "but there's an old proverb about the
engineer being hoist with his own petard, and however willing I might be
to blow up a junk full of murderous pirates, I shouldn't like to go up
with them."
"Oh, that would be easy enough, uncle," said Stan. "We should have to
fill a big, perfectly waterproof canister with powder or some other
combustible, make a hole in the side or top, and pass a copper wire
through so that it is right in the powder, then solder up the hole, and
after the canister has been sunk, bring the wire ashore ready."
"Yes, and what then? I must confess that I know nothing about
electricity."
"I'll tell you," said Stan. "You fetch the copper wire ashore and bring
it in, say, through that window. There! like this piece of string,"
continued the lad, illustrating his plans with a string-box which he
took from the office table, and after drawing out a sufficiency of the
twine, he dropped the string-box outside the window. "Now, uncle," he
said, "that thing represents the canister of blasting-powder, and the
string is the wire. You see, I shut down the window to hold the wire
fast, and bring the end here on to the office table."
"I see," said Uncle Jeff; "but what next?"
"I'll show you directly," continued Stan, with his forehead puckered up
in lines as if it were a mental Clapham Junction. "Now then, this
stationery-case is my battery of cells, each charged with acid and
stuff."
"We don't want to put a dangerous battery on Mr Blunt's table to blow
him up," said Uncle Jeff. "He's too useful."
"Of course he is, uncle; but we couldn't blow him up, because the
battery isn't dangerous."
"Then what's the good of it?"
"Ah! you don't see yet; you will directly," cried the boy. "There's no
danger at all till it is connected with the wire; and the wire, you
know, is connected with the canister of explosive, uncle. And don't you
see that it will be sunk right away there off the wharf? When we
connect the wire with the battery, it is not that which goes off, but
the powder in the canister under the junk."
"Oh, I see!" said Uncle Jeff. "Good; but when it is connected what does
it do?"
"Sends a current of electricity along the wire."
"Of course; I do understand that. Sends an electric spark through the
powder and blows it up."
"That's right, uncle; only, instead of sending a spark along the wire,
it sends a current to the end of the wire, and that end begins to glow
till it turns white-hot. But long before that it has set the powder
off, and if all goes right we should have a great junk blown all to
pieces."
"Bravo!" cried Uncle Jeff. "Three cheers for our inventor, Blunt!"
"Nonsense, uncle! I didn't invent that. It's only what one has read in
books on electricity. Now you can see, of course, that there is no
danger at the battery end of the wire."
"If you tell me there is no danger, Stan, of course I am bound to
believe it; but I don't quite see why the wire should not carry us the
message of the blow-up, and blow us up into the bargain."
"Ah! but that would be outside the bargain, uncle," said Stan, laughing.
"It would be a good bargain for us."
"And a horribly bad one for the Chinamen," said Uncle Jeff.--"Look here,
Blunt, this seems to be quite feasible."
"Quite," was the reply. "There is only one risk in it that I see."
"And that is--"
"Making a mistake: some one connecting the wire at the wrong time for
the friendly junk instead of an enemy. It wouldn't do to blow up Mao or
old Wing."
"No, uncle," said Stan quietly; "and it wouldn't do to take down rifles
and shoot either of them. There would be no danger so long as we took
care of the electric battery; nothing else would fire the canister."
"All right," cried Uncle Jeff in his cheeriest way. "Then the next
thing to be done is to get so many tins."
"They ought to be copper," said Stan.
"Very well, then, coppers--ready to `sky,' Stan--eh? You remember
skying the copper--the old charwoman putting the gunpowder in the copper
flue, as she said, to `burn up by degrees'?"
"Yes, I remember," said Stan, laughing; "and when it had exploded she
said, `Where is the powder blue?'"
"Exactly. The result of meddling with explosives which she did not
understand. I don't understand these things, so I feel nervous about
handling them; but with the proviso that you two are careful, I shall
send an order for all the materials you want, so that we shall have so
many mines ready for war-junks which come to meddle with us. But it
must take time."
"Yes," said Blunt, "it will take some months, for everything will have
to come from England, I expect. But I honestly believe that it will be
long before the enemy get over the defeat they have had, and meanwhile I
feel quite happy, for you have brought me four times as large a supply
of cartridges as we had before, and yourself as reinforcement. Besides,
our men are all veterans now, ready for the savage brutes if they do
venture to come."
"Well, the longer they keep off the better," said Uncle Jeff, "for you
will not be out of hospital for a month, Blunt."
"What!" cried the manager fiercely. "Let them come, and they'd find me
ready for action now."
Uncle Jeff glanced at him and shook his head.
"But I am, I tell you," cried Blunt excitedly. "My eyes are clear, and
my hand is pretty steady. I could manage a rifle now as well as when I
practised at a mark.--What do you say, Stan? Don't you think I could
fight?"
"I believe you'd try."
"Try: yes. I want to pay off old scores."
"Ah, well!" said Uncle Jeff, "we have no need to fidget about that.
Wait till the wretches come and then we'll see."