"It's all right, Bill—they've gone."
The figure of a man was dimly defined in the doorway of one of the cottages. He turned to answer a question.
"Yus. The 'ole bloomin' lot. Rearguard an' all."
The figure in the doorway was joined by another from the dark interior of the cottage, and the pair slunk cautiously into the street and looked up and down.
"We've done it, Sam," said the man addressed as Bill.
"Yus," replied Sam, peering around him under a frown from heavy brows. "Now for that public—me ole Gawd-lummy ain't 'ad nothin' in it fer a week."
"'Struth!" said Bill, stretching himself. "I ain't 'arf stiff wiv standin' in that poky little cupboard."
"Not so stiff as those poor blighters 'll be to-night," said Sam, with a thought of his marching comrades. "Now—right wheel! March! An' see that you've got a cartridge in yer rifle," he added in a tone of authority. It was evident that he was the leading spirit.
There was the metallic click of a cartridge inserted into the breech and then both men crept furtively in the shadow of the cottages towards the inn. The hanging sign of the house was silhouetted black against the sky just above their heads, when Sam stopped suddenly, pointing his rifle into the gloom.
"'Alt! 'Oo goes there?" he cried; under his breath he blasphemed rapidly, ferociously; the blasphemy of a man whose nerves are chaos, his speech-centres out of control. A shadowy figure moved in the darkness. "'Ands up—or I fire!" shouted Sam, the menace rising harshly out of his muttered vituperation.