CHAPTER XVIII.
WHEN THE CAMP GREW WARM President Newnham had prudently decided to lie down flat on the ground.
Nor was it any reflection on his courage that he did so.

He was taking no part in the fight, and the leaden tornado that swept the camp from some unknown point was almost instantly repeated.
At the same time the marksmen on and at the right of the bald knob continued to fire.

The camp defenders were in a criss-cross of fire that might have shaken the nerves of an old and tried soldier.
Tom watched the ground as bullets struck, trying to decide their original course from the directions in which the dust flew.

Then he swung around to the right.
With modern smokeless powder there was no light, bluish haze to mark the firing line of the new assailants.

Tom Reade had to search and explore with his binocular glass until he could make out moving heads, waving arms.
"I've found 'em, Fulsbee!" young Reade cried suddenly, above the noise of rifles within a few yards of where they stood, as the engineers made the most of their chances to fire.