“That’s right; don’t fire until we are in an emergency,” said Drew at the end of a few minutes.
“In a what?” cried Dickenson.
“In regular peril.”
“Why, what do you call this?” cried Dickenson, with a laugh. “I made my will half-an-hour ago—in fancy, of course.”
“Well, it is a hot corner,” said Drew, joining in his companion’s grim mirth; “but we haven’t got to the worst of it yet.”
“What!” yelled Dickenson. “Oh Drew, old man, you are about the coolest fish in the regiment. It can’t be worse than it has been.”
“Can’t it? Wait a few minutes, and the party who made for the ford will be at us.”
“But they can’t get their horses down the way we came.”
“No; but they can leave them with a fourth of their fellows to hold while they get somewhere within shot, and then we’re done. What do you say to tying a handkerchief to a rifle-barrel and holding it up? We’ve held out well.”
“Nothing! What do you say?”