"It shows the temper of the kind of people we're fighting," muttered Darrin, compressing his lips tightly. "We'll soon have the whole city full trying to wipe us out!"
"We may as well rush that building ahead," muttered the lieutenant. "I'd rather have my men killed in open fighting than demolished by all the heavy hardware on these two blocks."
Raising his voice, Trent ordered:
"Cease firing! Load magazines and hold your fire. We're going to charge!"
From the sailormen a half-suppressed cheer arose. Hand-to-hand fighting was much more to their liking than tedious sharpshooting.
"Keep close to the building on either side of the street!" Lieutenant Trent ordered. "No man is to run in the middle of the road and make an unnecessary target of himself. Ensigns Darrin and Dalzell will run behind their men, to see that no man exposes himself uselessly."
"Fall in! Ready to charge. In single file—-charge!"
Heading the line on Darrin's side of the street, Trent dashed around the corner, leading his sailormen at a run.
Dalzell's men rushed into the fray at the same moment, Dave amid
Dan, as ordered, bringing up the rear of the two files.
On the instant that the two lines of charging, cheering sailormen came into sight, the Mexicans on the roof-top redoubled their fire. It is difficult, however, to fire with accuracy at men who are running close to the buildings. Either the bullet falls short, or else goes wide of its mark and hits a wall behind the line. So Lieutenant Trent's men dashed down the street for a short distance, and pausing in the shelter of a building cheered jubilantly.