John sat with his own rifle across his knee and then looked at Wharton in the _Omnibus_ scarcely a hundred yards away.

The figure of Wharton was tense and rigid.

His rifle was raised and his eyes never left the man at the machine gun.
"I forgot to tell you, Philip," said John, "that Wharton is a great sharpshooter.

It's natural to him, and I don't believe the shifting platform will interfere with his aim." "Then I hope that he never has done better sharp-shooting than he will do today.

Ah, there goes the machine gun!" There was a rapid rat-a-tat, not so clear and distinct as it would have been at the same distance on ground, and a stream of bullets poured from the machine gun.