"And you ain't the only one," panted Harry Hawke. "Where's the other chaps?"
And then he saw that Ginger Bill was bleeding badly.
"Ordered over there at the double—ain't none of you got any ears?" said Ginger Bill, pointing to the hand-to-hand scrimmage which seemed to end in front of the Dashwoods' dug-out.
Harry Hawke, very excusably overstepping the deference due to commissioned rank, clutched the skirt of Dennis's tunic and nearly pulled him backwards.
"We four ain't no good, sir, in that scrum, but there's a shell-proof bomb store not a minute's run down this 'ere traverse. We could give 'em socks then!"
"Bravo, Hawke!" shouted Dennis. "Come on, Dan; he's right!" And they tore along the traverse like men possessed.
Back they came, Hawke and Tiddler girdled with a belt of racket bombs, Dennis and Dan Dunn each laden with two bags of that deadly variety so handy to the arm of the bowler.
Ginger Bill gave them a cheer as they went past him, but they heard nothing and saw nothing but that solid mass of grey German uniforms, wedged like herrings in a barrel where they had no right to be—in a British trench!
Without a moment's hesitation Dennis sprang on to the parados, and hurled bomb after bomb with perfect aim into the grey mass, which instantly began to yell and squirm as panic seized it. Nothing human could withstand that terrific shower that rained upon the victorious Saxons, who had been recovering their second wind; and as a lucky shell from one of our 18-pounders put the Prussian machine-gun out of action, Dan Dunn mounted the parapet, leaving the trench clear for Hawke and Tiddler.
The four advanced steadily, bombing as they went.