mored face was transformed by the fiery rage of
battle.

Surely there was some of the old Norseman streak left in Jack Benson's
make-up.

As he stood there, keenly alert, ready to heave the rock, he looked like
a young Thor armed with massive stone hammer.

"Spread! Get in back of him!" yelled Millard, hoarsely. "I'll take
the position of attack in front. Down him!"

"Guess which way I'm going to heave this stone!" cried Jack, tauntingly,
as he half wheeled, so as to watch those trying to steal a march in
his rear.

"Bosh! You can soon stop that, men!" jeered Millard, suddenly. "Fall
back and get a fistful of stones. Rain them in on the youngster at a
safe distance. One of you will soon hit him and send him down!"

Young Benson gasped inwardly with dismay, though his face did not
blanch. Millard's followers drew back to obey.

Yes! These fellows could throw small stones from a much greater distance
than the young lieutenant could hurl the large one. They had but to
keep up this fire for a few seconds when one of them was certain to hit
him in the head, putting him out of the fight.

Jack Benson dropped the big stone, though he stood over it. Like a
flash his revolver came out again. Aiming at Millard, the young naval
officer made frantic efforts to make the cylinder revolve. But the
weapon proved to be hopelessly jammed.

"Now, keep on volleying the youngster with until you have him down and
wholly out!" yelled Millard, hoarsely.

The air seemed filled with stones. Jack hopped about as nimbly as
possible, dodging all he could. Yet one part of his body after another
was hit.

Rat-a-tat-tat! Jack hardly comprehended what this new noise meant when
it grew in volume. Then a horseman rode into the yard at a charge.

"One down!" yelled the rider, with savage glee, as he drove his mount
squarely against one of the wretches, bowling him over and underfoot.

Hardly seeming to veer, the rider made for another fellow, and barely
missed him.

Just a second later, so it seemed, this valiant rider hauled the horse
on its haunches, and swung back, heading for another wretch.

Millard leaped at the horseman, a stone in his uplifted fist.

But Jack Benson saw him, and a well-planted blow sent Millard to the
ground.

"Bully good of you, Benson, old chap!" called a hearty voice. Then the
horseman spurred forward, running down another of Benson's late
assailants. The two remaining bolted as fast as