"'Our Special Wounded'!" cried Scott, rolling over on to his back.
"No harm done," he added, gathering himself up again; "only a chip off
my knee. This is getting sultry. I confess that the idea of that back
room at the Authors' Club begins to grow upon me."
"I have some diachylon."
"Afterwards will do. We're having a 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush.
I wish he _would_ rush."
"They're coming nearer."
"This is an excellent revolver of mine if it didn't throw so devilish
high. I always aim at a man's toes if I want to stimulate his
digestion. O Lord, there's our kettle gone!" With a boom like a
dinner-gong a Remington bullet had passed through the kettle, and a
cloud of steam hissed up from the fire. A wild shout came from the
rocks above.
"The idiots think that they have blown us up. They'll rush us now, as
sure as fate; then it will be our turn to lead. Got your revolver,
Anerley?"
"I have this double-barrelled fowling-piece."
"Sensible man! It's the best weapon in the world at this sort of
rough-and-tumble work. What cartridges?"
"Swan-shot."
"That will do all right. I carry this big bore double-barrelled pistol
loaded with slugs. You might as well try to stop one of these fellows
with a pea-shooter as with a service revolver.
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