“Go on firing, as I told you,” cried the wounded man in an angry snarl. “Can’t you see that you are helping me by what you are doing.”
“But you must be getting faint.”
“I am,” said Blunt fiercely, “with the hard work to keep you at work. Do you think I want our men to be put out of heart because I am bowled over?”
“No,” said Stan, with his cheek against his rifle-stock, and he pulled the trigger, sending a leaden messenger at one of the enemy who was about to lower his smoking linstock, which produced a savage yell by its effect; for the man with the burning match flung up his hands, the linstock went flying overboard, and Stan’s frown deepened as he felt that he had desperately wounded the gunner, who was being borne away before the lad’s rifle was again charged.
“That was another hit, wasn’t it?” said Blunt anxiously.
“I think so,” was the reply, “but I’m not sure that it was my shot.”
“Never mind so long as it’s one murderer the less. Keep on firing, my lad, while you can get so good a chance. I can’t see what the rest are doing. It seems to me that they are only wasting powder.”
“Oh no,” said Stan; “men on the junk keep on falling. But there are two more junks coming close up.”
“And you haven’t checked them. Fire away! Try and hit the steersmen.”
“It’s hard work to see them so as to pick them out,” said Stan, “but I’ll do my best.”