was checked. The machine gun was
playing havoc with them. Then, suddenly, the ominous tic-tac ceased,
while overhead came the pop-pop-pop of the seaplane's automatic gun.
It was more than the Huns had bargained for. Some dived into
underground retreats, others bolted, showing a clean pair of heels to
the Askaris, who were now resisting valiantly.

In the melee Wilmshurst found himself attacked by three muscular
natives, who for some reason did not attempt to fire, but fought with
their rifles and bayonets.

One the subaltern shot with the last cartridge in his revolver.
Hurling the empty weapon at the head of the second--which the Askari
avoided by adroitly stepping aside--Dudley parried a bayonet-thrust
with the sole weapon at his disposal, a "loaded" trench-stick. As he
did so the second native closed, delivering a thrust that drove the
bayonet through the left sleeve of the subaltern's tunic. Before the
man could recover his weapon, Wilmshurst brought the heavy stick down
upon his fingers.

Dropping his rifle the Askari gripped the subaltern's wrist with his
uninjured right hand, while a third native ran in to drive his bayonet
through the young officer's chest.

A deafening report sounded close to Wilmshurst's ear; he felt the blast
of a rifle shot on his cheek, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the
Askari topple forward and bite the dust.

Wilmshurst settled the third antagonist very effectively by delivering
a crashing blow with his left upon the point of the Askari's chin. The
man relaxed his grip and dropped.

"Thanks, Bela Moshi!" exclaimed Wilmshurst, catching sight of the
sergeant as the latter thrust a fresh clip of cartridges into his
magazine.

The struggle in this part of the line was now over. The Haussas were
engaged in firing shots into the dug-outs to intimidate their German
occupants. Fifty or sixty prisoners were being disarmed and rounded
up, while the wounded had to be given attention.

Wilmshurst, picking up his revolver and reloading it, looked around for
his brother subalterns. There was big Jock Spofforth in the act of
putting a first-aid dressing round a bullet wound in Danvers' arm,
while Laxdale was sitting on the ground and nursing his left foot.

There was no time to make enquiries just then. It was satisfactory to
learn that all the officers of "A" Company were alive; those who were
wounded were making light of their hurts. On the right flank the
struggle was