It was not a moment in which to mince matters, and Dennis drew up his legs with a yell.
"Don't play the giddy ox, Hawke. Where are your eyes?" he shouted, as the point of the bayonet grazed his brown gaiter; and then, in spite of the terrible danger overhanging them all, Dennis laughed oddly as his sworn admirer recovered his weapon, and the star-shell went out.
"You don't mean to say it's you, Mr. Dashwood!" came up a tremulous voice very unlike Hawke's own. "Drop, sir, your toes ain't above seven feet from the ground. Tiddler and me's been looking for you and the Captain for the last three hours."
"Well, you've found us," said Dennis, still clinging where he was; "and I hope you're in time. My brother should be up in the building by now, but he can only hobble on one leg, and the whole caboodle may be blown up any minute. What's to be done?"
Harry Hawke did not hesitate, but, slipping off his pack, handed his rifle to Tiddler, who stood speechless with amazement.
"Give us a back, Cockie," said Hawke. "Can you hold on, sir, if I climb up yer? Will the ladder bear?"
"It'll bear, and I can stick it if you're not too long," replied Dennis, twining his fingers tighter round the ironwork and bracing his arms for the strain.
The German shells had ceased to hum past the eastern end of the brewery, although they were falling rapidly about the captured trench, where the Reedshires were ensconced five hundred yards to the south.
"For Heaven's sake look sharp, man!" urged Dennis, and then he felt Hawke grasp his knees, pass a hand over his shoulder, hang there a moment, and grab at the broken step overhead.
"Sorry if I 'urt you, sir," muttered the Pride of Shoreditch, planting his hobnailed boot where his hand had been the moment before; and, active as a cat, he gained the iron ladder which had so nearly meant a broken neck for Dennis Dashwood.