lly one of them showed himself, raising his gun quickly
and firing toward the house. The planter's return fire did not come
toward Prescott's command, but well to the right of the soldiers.

"The Moros are up to their same old rascally tricks," whispered
Lieutenant Prescott to Sergeant Hal Overton. "They fire heavily, once in
a while, and then pepper the house occasionally with single shots. Their
idea is to keep those in the house firing until the defenders have used
up all their ammunition. When the Moros are satisfied that Seaforth's
party have no more cartridges, then those brown pirates plan to rush the
house, with little loss to themselves, and run creeses through every
defender left alive."

A moment later Prescott's order was repeated down the line of soldiers,
now lying prone on the ground:

"Load magazines! Remember to fire low. At the pistol shot begin firing
at will, but keep cool and try to make every cartridge tell. Better to
shoot slowly than to waste any ammunition."

As noiselessly as they could the prostrate men opened the magazines of
their rifles and slipped the cartridges in.

Lieutenant Prescott, revolver in hand, waited until he saw that all had
had time to obey the order. Then the stick, now in his left hand,
pointed forward, and the various squad leaders whispered:

"At four hundred yards, aim!"

It was a tense moment for the new men.

Bang! Lieutenant Prescott's revolver rang out, the muzzle pointed toward
the enemy.

Instantly following it came a sputtering of reports, then a settled,
heavy fire. The noise of so many soldiers firing at will was like that
made on Fourth of July by a hundred packs of cannon crackers all going
off at once.

Yet over all the din rose the yells of the surprised Moros in the
trench. It had caught them hard, for most of the soldiers were doing
good shooting.

Heedless, now, of the fire from the planter's house, the Moros in the
trench rose to flee. Some of them dropped where they stood. Others ran
away as fast as their brown legs could carry them, some brandishing
their rifles with defiance, a few others throwing down their firearms as
they started to bolt.

About a dozen of the rascals tried to return the fire of the soldiers,
but fired too high. None of the khaki-clad men were hit.

"Cease firing!" shouted Lieutenant Prescott, but he addressed his order
to the bugler who stood beside him. No voice could carry over such a din
of firing.

Ta-rar-ta