Tom Long was about to give the order for which his men were anxiously waiting, when he became aware of something going on in a clump of palms about forty yards away.
“What are they doing there, sergeant?” he said. “Look!”
“Getting ready for a rush, sir. Hadn’t we better form square?”
“No; only close up a little,” said Tom, sharply, as he set his teeth; for he knew that they were on the brink of a hand-to-hand encounter.
For though pretty well screened by the trees, it was evident that a large party of the Malays were getting ready for a rush, when bang—crash, there was the report of a gun from the steamer, followed almost instantly by the bursting of a shell in the very thick of the trees where the Malays had gathered, with the result that there was quite an opening rent in that part of the jungle, and the threatening party was scattered like chaff.
“That’s what I calls the prettiest shot I ever see,” said one of the men.
“Forward!” shouted Tom Long, and taking advantage of the momentary panic, he hurried his little party on at the double, with the result that by the time the Malays again menaced an attack, the sally-party were under cover of the guns at the fort, and a few minutes later, amidst the cheers of those they had left behind, Tom Long led his little party within the gates, not a man amongst them having received a scratch.