"Turn the same way that I'm looking.

See that blasted pine over there to your right, about six hundred there to the gully southeast of the tree.
Got the line?
Well, along there there's a line of men hidden.
Through the glass I can sometimes make out the flash of their rifles.
Take the glass yourself, and see." Dave Fulsbee snatched the binoculars, making a rapid survey.
"Reade," he admitted, "you have surely located that crowd." "Now, go after them with your patent hay rake," quivered Tom, feeling the full excitement of the thing in this tantalizing cross fire.

Then the cub added, with a sheepish grin: "I hope you'll scare 'em, instead of hitting 'em, Dave." Fulsbee stepped over to his assistant.

Between them they swung the machine gun around, the assistant wrenching off the canvas cover.

Fulsbee rapidly sighted the piece for six hundred yards.
The assistant stood by to feed belts of cartridges, while Dave took his post at the firing mechanism.
Cr-r-r-r-rack! sounded the machine gun, spitting forth a pelting storm of lead.