The poor old gun was by this time simply white with bullet splashes, and looked quite helpless as it wobbled from side to side and puffed out its erratic shells.
The marines, too, had constantly to be shifting away from Mr. Saunderson's breast-works so that it could fire over them, and this annoyed them.
* * * * *
Now that the rain had ceased, the bushes began to burn quite furiously, fanned by the wind, and the cloud of smoke stretched right across our front, rolling down towards the town. The fire had left a clear space of blackened twigs and half-burnt grass for nearly sixty yards in front of Mr. Saunderson's breast-works, and it was lucky enough for us that it had done so.
There had been a complete lull of firing, and I had gone across to yarn with Mr. Collins, to whom I had not yet spoken.
He was in the Maxim redoubt at the corner, strengthening it with sods of turf, and he winked at me as I came near him. "Having a good time, Glover?"
"Ra-ther," I said. "Wouldn't Mr. Parker like to be here too?"
"He's a splendid chap," said Mr. Collins. "Never thinks of himself, and sent me up here without my asking. Do you know, he had every mortal thing ready—except the oil-drums, of course. The men even had their leather gear on, and water-bottles filled, before he got the Commander's signal. He thought he might want reinforcements."
"I rather expected to see Jones come ashore," I said.
"Poor old Jones is on his beam-ends, groaning in his hammock, pretty bad with rheumatism or something like it. That day on the ledge in the rain was too much for him. You're a pretty lucky chap to get ashore—the only midshipman of the whole crowd," he continued. "How did you manage it?"