Desultory gunfire kept the night alive. Apart from the automatic rifle, there seemed no organized opposition from within.
“These lads are slow off the mark,” I said to Hoskiss.
“Well, we have lots of time,” he returned, giving himself another drink. “Do you expect me to join in or something?”
“Not just yet,” I said. “You better case off on the Scotch. When you do go into action, you’ll need calm and courage.”
“I’m always calm,” he returned, grinning, “and I’m stocking up in courage.”
I wanted to locate the automatic rifle. It kept banging off near by, but from where I lay, I couldn’t see who was using it. I lay flat, wriggled further out, until my head and shoulders were clear of the protecting counter.
“That’s how guys won the Purple Heart,” Hoskiss said to the red-head. “It’s also a good way to qualify for a funeral.”
I looked around, spotted the sportsman with the rifle. He was kneeling against the front of the counter, and every so often he’d fire blindly at the shuttered windows. He was middle-aged, going bald. Thick glasses sat uneasily on his short fat nose.
“How are you making out, bud?” I asked him. “Think you’re hitting anyone?”
He jumped round with a snarl of fright, swung the gun in my direction. I didn’t wait, but pulled back so fast the red-head squealed with terror.