A couple more shots were fired, and another man went down, and then there was a yell of rage and an order from one of the party, with the result that all dropped upon their faces, checked, and began to fire at the pair crouching behind the stone, made to look bigger by Gedge’s poshtin lying in a little heap on the top.
“It’s all right, sir; they couldn’t hit a haystack. Their hands are all of a tremble with climbing. We’re right enough. I hit that chap.”
Proof was given, for one of the enemy started up, dropped his long jezail, and fell backwards.
“Keep on firing steadily, Gedge,” said Bracy huskily. “I must open upon that group on our flank. They’re coming on.”
“Then we’re done, for, sir,” said the young soldier. “But mind this, sir; I die game, though you did call me a coward last night.”
“I did, Gedge, and it was a cruel lie, my lad. Fire away. I wish I had your pluck. Look here.”
“Yes, sir.—One for you,” growled Gedge as he fired again.—“I’m listening, but I can’t look. Hit him, sir?”
“Yes,” said Bracy. “Look here.”
“Can’t, sir.”
“Then listen. When it comes to the worst—one grip of the hand, my lad, before we go.”