Tiddler's visage was nothing but a hideous pulp.
And they knew in a moment that poor Tiddler had already passed beyond all human aid; Major Dashwood made another mental note, to be placed upon official record later on—if he himself should be spared!
At the mouth of a communication Hawke paused to readjust his burden. The limp figure was somehow slipping from his grasp, and, seeing at last, he realised that his errand had been in vain.
As he stood looking down at the crumpled thing that a few minutes before had been a living, moving part of the great war machine, Dennis laid a hand on his shoulder.
"He was a good plucked 'un, Hawke, and you did your best for him," said Dennis; "now you've got to keep a stiff upper lip."
"Yus, I know, sir," was the husky reply, as something rolled glistening down the dirty cheek. "'Im and me 'listed the same day, and Tiddler was the only pal I ever 'ad."
He turned a fierce and flashing eye towards the enemy barrage; an eye that positively flamed vengeance to come, and then he pointed with his hand.
"See that, sir?" he cried hoarsely, "ain't that Mr. Wetherby?"
A long way out across the wet slope, where the raging Reedshires had taken heavy toll of the flying foe before the German gunners had drawn that barrier of fire across the way, a figure was crawling back towards them, dragging one useless leg behind him.
A very wicked piece of shrapnel had carried young Wetherby's knee-pan away, and, lodging in the joint, gave the sufferer excruciating agony every time he knocked it. More than once he almost fainted, and each time the wounded knee jarred against the rough ground young Wetherby groaned through his clenched teeth.