Stan Lynn Part 33

"Why do you say that?"

"Because we can see for miles, and there is not a sign of danger. They will not surprise us; they want daylight for their attack.--Ahoy, there!

Wing! See anything?"

There was no reply.

"Look at that," said Blunt, smiling. "Nice sort of a sentry that!"

"Why, he's asleep!" whispered Stan.

Asleep the poor fellow was, and no wonder. Duty to his employers had a strong hold, but nature and exhaustion, after hours of baking and fasting upon the roof with straining eyes, were stronger; and but a very short time before the appearance of his European masters, Wing's head, in spite of a desperate struggle to keep it firm, had begun to nod, then to make long, slow, graceful bows at the western sky, till at last, as if the strain upon his eyes in watching had affected the poor fellow's brain with an uncontrollable drowsiness, his head went right down, to rest between his knees. There he crouched as if in a saddle; and then he was motionless, and looking wonderfully like a beautifully carved finial placed by a cunning builder as an ornament to the great gable-end.

"Poor beggar! It was too bad to leave him so long," said Blunt. "I suppose I mustn't bully him. But suppose the enemy had been coming down the river and had surprised us."

"We should have been to blame for not having more sentries on the lookout."

"Right, my young Solon," said Blunt; "but it would have been a startler for him, and a lesson too, if he had been woke up by a shot."

"Yes, that's right," said Stan, smiling at a thought which flashed across his brain.

"What are you laughing at?" said Blunt sharply. "I was thinking how it would make him jump if I fired a shot now."

"Ah, to be sure! Slip a cartridge into your rifle and fire in the air."

"I am loaded," said Stan, who began to repent of his words.

"Of course. Fire away."

"No, no; it would be too bad."

"Fire--away!" said Blunt in a stern, angry tone; and feeling at once the impulse to obey, the lad held his rifle up pistol-wise at arm's-length, drew the trigger, and then, as the report rang out, winced at the kick the piece gave, and as the smoke rose, stared in horror at the result of his shot.

Stan Lynn--by George Manville Fenn

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

"'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 hoa.r.s.ely, 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 a.s.sembled, all impotent to render any a.s.sistance 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, pa.s.sing 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 hoa.r.s.ely:

"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."