That was as far as he got, for there was a crash, the sidewalk shook, and then Darrin quickly pulled his superior to his feet.
The report of Hemingway's rifle was not heard, but a tiny cloud of thin vapor curled from the muzzle of his uplifted weapon.
"I think I got one of the pair, sir!" called the sailor, gleefully.
"He threw up his hands and pitched backward out of sight." Lieutenant Trent looked at the sidewalk astounded, for, where he had stood hay the broken pieces of a cookstove that had been hurled from the roof two stories above.
"That mass of iron fell right where I was standing," muttered Trent.
"Darrin, I wondered why on earth you should jerk me back and lay me out in that unceremonious fashion.

If you hadn't done it the cookstove would have crushed my bones to powder." "It shows the temper of the kind of people we're fighting," muttered Darrin, compressing his lips tightly.

"We'll soon have the whole city full trying to wipe us out!" "We may as well rush that building ahead," muttered the lieutenant.
"I'd rather have my men killed in open fighting than demolished by all the heavy hardware on these two blocks." Raising his voice, Trent ordered: "Cease firing! Load magazines and hold your fire.

We're going to charge!" From the sailormen a half-suppressed cheer arose.

Hand-to-hand fighting was much more to their liking than tedious sharpshooting.
"Keep close to the building on either side of the street!" Lieutenant Trent ordered.