“Can’t tell yet, sir.—What’s that, sergeant?”
For answer the sergeant went down on his hands and knees and advanced, pushing his lantern before him.
“There, you needn’t do that,” said Roby impatiently. “The man’s not here. It’s a false alarm. He wasn’t left behind, and we shall find him somewhere, when we get back to quarters. Come out, sergeant. I’m sick of this.”
“But there’s something here, sir.”
“Eh? What is it?”
The sergeant thrust something behind him, and Lennox went down on hands and knees, reached into the narrow hole, which the sergeant nearly filled, and snatched the object from the man’s hand.
“His helmet!” cried Lennox excitedly, and he too passed it back to where Roby and Dickenson were, and they examined the recovered headpiece.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it,” said Dickenson. “Look here,” he cried as Lennox and the sergeant came back; “what do you make of this?”
“Oh! it’s the poor fellow’s helmet, gentlemen,” said the sergeant. “Look at his number, sir.”
“Then where is he? Is there any opening in yonder?”