e tunic,
growling fiercely the while.

"Yah! That's flesh!" roared Dickenson, and in his rage and pain he
struck down heavily with his doubled fist. "You brute!" he cried.
"Give up, or I'll shove you down."

The prisoner gave up struggling for a moment or two, and seemed to be
trying to get a hold of some projecting stone.

"There," cried Dickenson, "let go. Give up; you're a prisoner. Leave
off struggling, and I'll haul you back on to the shelf. It's no good to
fight any more. That's right. You surrender, then? Mind, if you try
any of your confounded Boer treachery I'll send a bullet through your
skull."

_Crack_!

"Oh!"

The shot from a revolver, and a cry of pain from Dickenson, who at the
same moment realised the fact that the prisoner's last movements had
meant not giving up or getting a safer position on the ledge, but an
effort to get at his revolver and fire at so close quarters that the
condensed flame from the pistol's muzzle burned the young man's cheek,
the bullet barely touching the skin as it flew off into space.

"Beast!" cried Dickenson savagely, and he struck wildly at the revolver
as it was fired again, and fortunately diverted the clumsy attempt at an
aim, but at the expense of his knuckles, two of which were cut against
the chambers of the revolver.

As he uttered the word the young officer was recalling the fact that
this made two shots, and he felt that in all probability there were four
more to come. His hand was busy as well as his head, for he struck out
again and again in an effort to get hold of the pistol; but he could not
prevent the firing of another shot, which struck the rock beside him
with a loud pat.

"Ha!" cried Dickenson in a tone full of satisfaction; "got you!" For
his efforts in the darkness had been at last rewarded by his fingers
coming in contact with the barrel of the little weapon, which he clasped
tightly and held on to, in spite of jerk and snatch, feeling the barrel
heat as it was fired again, and again, and again, but with the muzzle
forced upward so that the bullets flew harmlessly away.

"That's better," growled Dickenson. "Now, you spiteful savage, will you
give up--will you surrender?"

A savage growling was the only answer.

"You brute!" muttered Dickenson. "'Pon my word, if it wasn't for poor
old Drew I believe I should let you go over, and see how you liked
that.--Here, Drew," he cried aloud, "how is it? What are you doing?"

"Holding