"Stick it, Den!" shouted a voice in his ear, and he saw that it was his brother Bob, a red smear on his cheek and a light in his eyes Dennis had only seen there on the football field.
"Come on, old chap!" yelled the C.O., "every fifty yards is worth a monarch's ransom to Haig. Let's see if we can't carry that wood yonder while their searchlights last"; and he pointed to the ridge beyond the captured trench. "I'd like to know who silenced that machine-gun just now. I suppose half a dozen men will claim it to-morrow, while the real chap may be dead."
"Oh no, he isn't," laughed a voice.
"Shut your head, young Wetherby, unless you want it punched!" was Dennis's angry retort, but his fellow subaltern only laughed the louder.
"It was Dennis," said the boy; "he went in alone and shot the whole lot, Major!"
Bob Dashwood opened his lips to speak, but made a mental note instead, for the searchlights had been suddenly withdrawn, and were now concentrated in one blinding blaze about fifty yards in front of the charging brigade.
The German gunners also had shortened their fuses, transferring their barrage to the spot, where they poured in a hail of shells through which no man might try to pass and live.
"Halt there—hang you—halt!" roared the Major commanding; "don't you see we've reached our limit for to-night?"
The whistles shrilled amid the red and yellow shell bursts, and the victory-maddened men, realising the impossible, even before the word reached them, pulled up and looked to their right.
"Dig in—dig in!" shouted somebody.