He turned towards his comrade with a comical look of dismay upon his countenance after a very narrow escape from death, a bullet having passed through his cap, when whizz! whizz! whirr! half-a-dozen more bullets passed dangerously near.
“Mind, for goodness’ sake!” shouted Lennox, in a voice full of the agony he felt. “Don’t you see that you are exposing yourself?”
“What am I to do?” cried the young officer angrily. “If I lean an inch that way they fire at me, and if I turn this way it’s the same.”
“Creep closer to the stone.”
“Then I can’t take aim.”
“Then don’t try. We’ve got to shelter till their firing brings help.”
“Oh, it’s all very fine to talk, Drew, old chap, but I’m not going to lie here like a target for them to practise at without giving the beggars tit for tat.—Go it, you ugly Dutch ruffians! There, how do you like that?”
He fired as he spoke, after taking careful aim at another, who, from a post of vantage, kept on sending his bullets dangerously near.
“Did you hit?” asked Lennox.
“I think so,” was the reply. “He has backed away.”