A wild crackle and splutter of rifle firing rang out—another hideous yell. Two Europeans sprang into the open, and a crowd of blue-coated Chinamen followed them and began rushing madly across.
"Now, men, you can't miss them; fire low, fire low, and take aim. Take aim, can't you?" (this to a young marine who was shoving in cartridges and pulling the trigger almost at the same time).
Seven or eight fell before they had gone as many yards, but still they came on, the Europeans well ahead.
They covered a hundred yards, and now they were coming up the rise, the ground behind them dotted with little blue heaps.
Cummins drew his revolver. "Is yours loaded, Glover?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then don't draw it unless they get over the sandbags," he chuckled, "or you'll be shooting me."
The marines were up on their knees now, firing over the breast-work. It was absolute slaughter, but the Chinese showed no sign of slackening.
One of the white men Glover recognized—the man with the black beard.
"Two of you take that black-bearded scoundrel," Williams sang out, "and two the other white man."