He
knew only that he should reach the mafoo's little gate by the pony-shed,
and step out of these dark ages into the friendly present; so that when
something from the wall blazed point-blank, and he fell flat on the
ground, he lay in utter defeat, bitterly surprised and offended. His own
friends: they might miss him once, but not twice. Let it come quickly.
Instead, from the darkness above came the most welcome sound he had ever
known,--a keen, high voice, scolding.
"What the devil are you firing at?" It was Heywood, somewhere on the
roof of the pony-shed. He put the question sharply, yet sounded cool and
cheerful. "A shadow? Rot! You waste another cartridge so, and I'll take
your gun away. Remember that!"
Nesbit's voice clipped out some pert objection.
"Potted the beggar, any'ow--see for yourself--go-down 's afire."
"Saves us the trouble of burning it." The other voice moved away, with
a parting rebuke. "No more of that, sniping and squandering. Wait till
they rush you."
Rudolph lifted his head from the dust.
"Maurice!" he called feebly. "Maurice, let me in!"
"Hallo!" answered his captain on the wall, blithely.
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