d were dragging their weapon into position
under the window of a large jeweller's shop on the left flank of Bob's
firing line. This was bad enough. In street fighting at close quarters
a gun of this kind is very murderous and ought to do a terrible amount
of destruction. But things would have been much worse if the soldiers
had had it. They, I suppose, would have known how to use it. I doubted
McConkey's skill in spite of his practice on the slob lands below the
Shore Road.

"The soldiers will have to shoot in earnest now," said Bland. "If that
fellow can handle his gun he'll simply mow them down."

It looked at first, I am bound to say, as if McConkey had really
mastered his new trade. He got his weapon into position and adjusted a
belt of cartridges, working as coolly as if he were arranging the
machinery of the Green Loaney Scutching Mill. He seemed to find a
horrible satisfaction in what he was doing. Twice I saw him pat the
muzzle of the thing as if to give it encouragement. I dare say he
talked to it.

"He's damned cool," said Bland. "I've seen fellows who'd been fighting
for months not half so--"

Then McConkey started his infernal machine. The effect was most
surprising. Two tramcars, which were standing close to the far end of
the street, simply disappeared. There was a kind of eruption of
splintered wood, shattered glass and small fragments of metal. When
that subsided there was no sign of there ever having been tramcars in
that particular spot. McConkey evidently noticed that he had not aimed
his pet quite straight. He stopped it at once.

An officer--I think it was Bob's friend Henderson--sprang to his feet
at the far end of the street and ran along the line of soldiers
shouting an order.

"They'll begin in earnest now," said Bland. "Why doesn't he rattle
them again with the gun?"

McConkey had the best will in the world, but something had gone wrong
with his gun; it was a complicated machine, and he had evidently
jammed some part of it. I saw him working frenziedly with a large iron
spanner in his hand; but nothing he could do produced the least
effect. It would not go off.

In the meantime Henderson's soldiers stood up and stopped firing. The
volunteers stopped firing too. The soldiers formed in a line. There
was silence in the street for a moment, dead silence. I could hear
McConkey's spanner ringing against the iron of his gun. Then Bob Power
shouted.

"They're going to charge us. Up, boys,