I know you'll fight to the end, and that won't be long coming,
unless help gets here. We can never repulse another assault; we've got
eight men killed, and more than that wounded now--the next time we'll
all go. What do you say--shall we hold on, hoping?"
"Oi'm fer doin' it, sorr," broke in Mahoney, "an' Oi'm spakin' fer ivery
Irishmon in H troop."
"And you, Miles?"
"I'm not so bloomin' fond of a fight, Lieutenant," he said, scratching
his head, "but I like to stay fighting after I once get started. Ain't
that about the size of it, boys?"
Several heads nodded, and one fellow growled,
"Hell! we kin giv' 'em the same dose a third time."
"I don't expect that, Sims," I returned. "But those other fellows ought
to be up any minute now. Anyway we'll have a breathing spell, for the
Johnnies must have had enough to last them a few minutes. How is the
ammunition?"
"'Bout twenty rounds apiece left."
"Then get to work, men; load up and strengthen every weak spot. We'll
put up the best show we can. What did you want, Foster?"
The man addressed, a slim, awkward fellow, his spindle legs conspicuous
under the short cavalry jacket, jerked off his cap in embarrassment.
"Why nuthin' much, sir," he stammered. "I ain't no objections to goin'
on with the fightin', only if we're so sartain to catch hell it don't
seem exactly right fer us to keep that thar young gal here in the house.
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