"Forrard march!" roared Slorkey. With the yell of demons, his fierce
followers advanced to the onset, firing their blank cartridges with
desperate valor.

Equally alert were Major Ryely and his followers.

"Their swords were a thousand, their bosoms were one."

Their faces begrimed with powder, their eyes gleaming with ferocity,
they descended to the plain--an avalanche of heroes. The soul of
Headly would have swelled within him had he seen them.

For more than one hour that deadly consumption of blank cartridges
endured, and then Ryely and his troops retired in good order.

"Boys," said the major, "old Slorkey wants us to gin out--send a flag
of truce--a white pocket handkerchief on a beanpole--and propose to
surrender. But it goes agin my grit for Hardscrabble to cave in to
Dogtown, when we could knock the hindsights off 'em, if we was only a
mind to."

"Hurray for the major!" responded the Hardscrabblers.

"I've got a grudge agin the kurnil," said the major, "and if you'll
stand by me, I'll take it out of 'em. What say?"

"Agreed!" was the spontaneous response.

While Slorkey was waiting for the covenanted flag of truce, he saw the