He was gone before Aristide Puzzeau could say any more, and after a quick sprint he came up with an English Fusilier battalion consolidating the position they had just secured.
"Hallo, Dashwood!" hailed a voice, as a very young officer with a very large eyeglass turned round and stared at him. "You look as though you've had a rough night of it. Where on earth have you sprung from?"
"I've been with the French for a spell," said Dennis, looking down ruefully at his tattered uniform. "Where shall I find my crush?"
"Good heavens! they're miles away," said his interrogator, who had been with Dennis in the same training corps. "Pretty good raid, what? What price Romford after this? Bet you a lemon squash your C.O. will reprimand you for appearing on parade improperly dressed."
"I'll chance that, Jimmy. So long, old man," and he threaded his way past the rear of the brigade, not without some good-humoured banter at his dishevelled appearance.
It was twelve o'clock in the day when, rather leg weary, he struck the nearest battalion of his own brigade, and arrived in time to find himself once more in the very thick of it.
During the fighting on their right General Dashwood's command had lain doggo, but word had just come that they, too, were now to make a surprise attack on the enemy's first line trench, and smoke bombs were already preparing the way for them.
"By Jove! Den. The governor's been tearing his hair about you!" was Bob's greeting as they met on the fire-step. "You look pretty well knocked. Better turn in, old man, for a spell."
"Turn in be hanged!" cried Dennis. "Here, Hawke, you've no business with three bags of bombs. Give one of them to me. I'm going to be in this."
He had scarcely fitted the leather strap to his shoulder when his brother, who had been looking at his watch for the last minute said: "Ready, boys! Get over!" And the Reedshires cleared the parapet with a low glad murmur.