“Something doing now, sure.”
Henri sidestepped further along the wall in order to get a little closer to the scene of action.
“The connection’s shut off, that’s what’s the matter,” predicted Josh, speaking into Billy’s ear. “The job down below is going on. We’ll know in a minute or two whether or not the captain has ‘fixed’ the big guns.”
A door was flung open and a broad stream of light penetrated the outside darkness. In the illuminated opening was framed a stalwart Turk, and he started a yell, which found echo in the high-pitched voices of several more of the fez wearers behind him.
The sentries at the fort, two hundred yards distant, responded quickly to the summons, coming in twos and threes, pell mell, toward the cable station, brandishing their rifles, and doing some shouting on their own account.
“Gee whiz,” muttered Billy, “it’s a regular riot!”
Then to the rear of this noisy demonstration, the real note of alarm to the trio of watchers in the ruins rang out in the night.
Crack, crack—the whiplike snap of small-bore shooting irons!
The last words of the captain had been for his companions to make for the biplanes when shooting commenced. In compliance, the trio retreated in single file, close to the wall, and then ran like deer across the open, luckily for them a little way and partially screened by trees.
Up to the moment there was never a boom from the big guns, and even the spatting of the lesser weapons had ceased after the first few shots.