CHAPTER XXX
Under the Enemy Wall
With the coming of dusk came Dennis Dashwood back to the old battalion, just at roll-call. The last quarter of a mile he performed at the double, and burst into the fire-trench like a bolt from the blue.
When his brother officers shook hands with him—for all were delighted at his return—an irresistible murmur of welcome rippled along A Company, and as Hawke's name was called at the moment, that worthy replied with a ringing yell.
"Report yourself at office to-morrow," said the lieutenant in charge of No. 2 Platoon, and Harry Hawke so far forgot himself as to answer, "Right-o, Governor!" at the same time lifting his trench helmet on to the point of his bayonet and waving it frantically.
An enemy sniper promptly sent it spinning on to the top of the parados.
"You shall do four days' field punishment, Hawke!" said the outraged officer.
"Forty days if you like, sir—I don't care what becomes of me. 'Ere's Mr. Dashwood back agin—that's good enough!"
No. 2 Platoon, carried away by the infectious enthusiasm, joined in the shout.