George Fenn - Stan Lynn - A Boy's Adventures in China

“Will they try again, father?” whispered Stan, as if in fear of his words being heard through the broken window.

“Unless help comes,” was the reply, given in a tone which seemed to Stanley to suggest that the enemy would be sure to return, and before long.

“But if they do try to raise the ladder again, Stan, my boy,” said Uncle Jeff cheerily, “why, you must show your skill with the pistol once more. Why, boy, I couldn’t have shot like that!”

“Jeff,” said Stan’s father hurriedly, “I can hear them busy below.”

“Trying to get up? Well, they have got their work cut out. But, hullo! what’s that? Smashing up the office furniture.”

“Yes; that’s it, uncle. Listen; you can hear it quite plainly.”

“Poor, child-like beggars!” said Uncle Jeff contemptuously. “How I should like to have the lot trapped by a company of foot, and then see them thoroughly caned like schoolboys! Yes, they are smashing things up pretty well. Bad job, Oliver, for we shall have to furnish the whole office again, and rebuild it, too, with the rest of the place.”

“Oh, not so bad as that, Jeff!” said Stanley’s father.

“Yes, my lad; you may make up your mind for the worst. Don’t you grasp why they are breaking up the things?”

“Fire?” cried Stanley excitedly.

“Right, my lad. They’re going to burn us out.”

Stanley’s father stamped heavily upon the floor in the impotent rage he felt.

“What’s to be done, Jeff?” he said. “They’ll beat us now.”

“Fire for fire, brother Oliver,” said Uncle Jeff through his teeth. – “Here, Stan, my lad, don’t you begin thinking that your uncle is a bloodthirsty wretch, because all he asks for here is to be let alone to make his living and a bit to spare. – Do you hear, sir?”

“Yes, uncle,” said Stan, who had more ears for the sounds below than for his uncle’s words.

“That’s right, then. The Chinese can run away if they like, but if they don’t they must take their chance of getting bullets through them. – Now, Oliver, old lad, set the example. We can’t stand here to be roasted to death, for it would be very unpleasant; so shoot as many of the wretches as you can. – And you, Stan, my boy, help him. Ah, look out! They’re raising the ladder again.”

Both Stan and his father saw the peril at the same moment, and they rushed forward, Stan following his father’s example and beating out a pane of glass with the butt of his revolver so as to make room to fire.

They were invisible to the attacking party, but the noise made by the falling glass directed the attention of the mob to their presence, and they were saluted by a savage burst of yelling and a shower of missiles, which did no more harm than to destroy a pane or two of glass.

It was different with the fire the enemy drew: for, feeling that they were regularly fighting for their lives, and growing desperate, Stan and his father watched the moving ladder, whose end came with a sharp rap against the sill of the window. As soon as the upper part was darkened by the figure of a man, Oliver Lynn fired, there was a yell, and the man stood fast. But another rushed up to his support, and this time Stanley fired. The new arrival let go his hold of the ladder-sides, jerked himself back, and fell headlong on to the people watching his progress.

But the sight of their falling friends only enraged the attacking party, and another man or two rushed up the ladder, just as Uncle Jeff seized and threw the window wide-open, waited his time, and feeling more than seeing that the men were crowding up, stepped out on the sill, seized the top of the ladder, and raising it up a little, made one tremendous heave and thrust, forcing it outward till it was perfectly perpendicular. Then he gave a final thrust and sent it outwards, the mob below yelling, and some of those on the rungs of the ladder beginning to leap off before it went over backwards with a loud crash, but unfortunately taking Uncle Jeff with it, for he found it impossible to recover his balance.

“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.