'I'm sure he's right.
They're much more amenable.'
'You don't think there's going to be any serious trouble?'
'Oh, no.
Prynne knows his job and he's a pretty determined fellow.
He wouldn't put up with any nonsense and with me and our policemen to back him up I don't imagine they'll try any monkey tricks.'
He smiled.
'The iron hand in the velvet glove.'
The words were barely out of his mouth when a sudden shouting arose.
There was a commotion and the sounds of steps. Loud voices and cries.
'Tuan, Tuan.'
'What the devil's the matter?'
Alban sprang from his chair and went swiftly on to the veranda.
Anne followed him.
At the bottom of the steps was a group of natives. There was the sergeant, and three or four policemen, boatmen and several men from the kampong.
'What is it?' called Alban.
Two or three shouted back in answer.
The sergeant pushed others aside and Alban saw lying on the ground a man in a shirt and khaki shorts.
He ran down the steps.
He recognized the man as the assistant manager of Prynne's estate. He was a half-caste.
His shorts were covered with blood and there was clotted blood all over one side of his face and head.
He was unconscious.
'Bring him up here,' called Anne.
Alban gave an order.
The man was lifted up and carried on to the veranda.
They laid him on the floor and Anne put a pillow under his head.
She sent for water and for the medicine-chest in which they kept things for emergency.
'Is he dead?' asked Alban.
'No.'
'Better try to give him some brandy.'
The boatmen brought ghastly news.
The Chinese coolies had risen suddenly and attacked the manager's office.
Prynne was killed and the assistant manager, Oakley by name, had escaped only by the skin of his teeth.
He had come upon the rioters when they were looting the office, he had seen Prynne's body thrown out of the window, and had taken to his heels.
Some of the Chinese saw him and gave chase.
He ran for the river and was wounded as he jumped into the launch.
The launch managed to put off before the Chinese could get on board and they had come downstream for help as fast as they could go.
As they went they saw flames rising from the office buildings.
There was no doubt that the coolies had burned down everything that would burn.
Oakley gave a groan and opened his eyes.
He was a little dark-skinned man, with flattened features and thick coarse hair.
His great native eyes were filled with terror.
'You're all right,' said Anne.
'You're quite safe.'
He gave a sigh and smiled.
Anne washed his face and swabbed it with antiseptics.
The would on his head was not serious.
'Can you speak yet?' said Alban.
'Wait a bit,' she said. 'We must look at his leg.'
Alban ordered the sergeant to get the crowd out of the veranda.