“None of us, sir,” came after what seemed to be a long pause, “but some o’ them got it bad and made ’em yell and run i’stead o’ keeping on the slink.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Murray, as he pressed his hand to his painfully throbbing breast. “I thought you meant—”
“Our lads, sir? Oh no; we’re all right: the enemy, sir. That volley started ’em. I heard ’em rush off quite plain. Like us to give ’em another?”
Murray was silent as he stood straining his eyes and ears, to pierce the smoke and hear the whish of another spear.
“No,” he said, at last, in a low tone full of relief, “waste of powder;” and then he started, and gave vent to a cry of joy. “Hear that, my lads?” For from some distance away to their left came a shout which meant in this peril-fraught position, help and the companionship of friends.
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Tom May.
“Shout, lads—shout!” cried Murray excitedly; and as a hearty Ahoy! rang out the lad winced, for he felt that he had given an order which would show the enemy once more where they were, and he once more strained his senses in the full expectation of the coming of another spear.
But he gave vent to his pent-up breath with a feeling of intense relief, as instead of the whish of a spear came another hearty “ahoy!” from certainly nearer at hand, followed by the tramp of feet and the crackling sound of charred wood.
“Where are you?” came directly after, in a well-known voice.
“Here, sir!” cried Murray. “Forward, my lads!” And the men followed him at the double.