"Now, sir!" panted Harry Hawke, seizing his officer's right wrist, "let go yer 'old while I give yer a 'aul. Up we come!"
Dennis gave a spring at the same time, and his fingers clutched the banister that supported the rail. The rest was easy, and between them he scrambled to his feet as a curious stumping made the iron gallery ring above them, and Bob's voice was heard calling, "Where have you got to, Den?"
They helped him down the broken ladder, Dennis explaining the position as he hopped between them.
"Can't say I fancy that drop you speak of, with this gammy leg of mine," said Bob ruefully; "but I must chance it. I suppose you haven't got a coil of rope concealed about your valuable person, Hawke?"
"Not arf, I 'aven't, sir," grinned the practical one, unfastening one end of the Mauser sling and tying the other round the last rung. "I reckon this'll do us."
"Bravo, Hawke," said Dennis gratefully. "Now then, Bob."
"No, you go first, old man."
"See you hanged before I do," was Dennis's blunt response, and with an "Oh, very well," Bob Dashwood grabbed the leather sling, and, lowering himself to the ground, was caught by Tiddler in his outstretched arms.
The other two dropped at the same moment, Dennis smothering a groan as his head seemed to open and shut from the jar.
"It'll save time, sir, if you'll carry my pack," said Harry Hawke, with a backward glance at the brewery. "Make a chair, Tid, and look slippy"; and before he quite knew what was happening the two privates had joined hands, and Bob Dashwood was being carried forward at a run across that deadly No Man's Land.