And as he fired again and again the Malay attacking party hung back, dropped a little more to the rear, and began turning their spears into missiles, which began to whistle past the defenders, who were finding their voices more and more, and cheered hoarsely.
“Here y’are, sir! Old England for ever!” cried Peter. “I’ve got about a couple of dozen handy. Ketch hold.”
“Who’s that firing?” came in a familiar voice from Archie’s right. “You, Maine! Great heavens! I thought— Here, distribute some of your cartridges to the men.”
“No use, sir. This is a shot-gun,” panted Archie hoarsely; and he fired again twice, snatched at a fresh supply from Peter, and was in the act of closing the breech again, when the Major exclaimed:
“Stand fast, my lads! It has given you a rest. Bayonets!”
There was another cheer at this, and the men stood fast as ever—a dwindling party, hard beset, of the defenders of the mess-room veranda, their breast-work for the most part consisting of the bodies of the slain.
“Steady, my lads! Close up!” cried the Major.—“That you, Sir Charles? Good! I didn’t know you could use a bayonet like that.”
There was a tremendous yell from the front now, and it became plain that the enemy had recovered from the check given by the recrudescence of the long-stopped firing, little though it was, and were now coming forward in greater force.
“Close up, my lads!” he said again. “God save the Queen!”
The cheer that burst forth was only faint, but it was true as the British steel with which the men stood ready to deliver their final thrusts.