“I wonder whether the other men who crossed have escaped,” said Drew thoughtfully, as he took his whistle from his cross-belt and held it ready to blow.
“Take it for granted they have, my son,” said Dickenson. “They really are clever at that sort of thing. I say, I’m glad I didn’t go through that performance.”
“What performance?” said Drew wonderingly.
“Hand-shaking in that sentimental way.”
“It wouldn’t have done you any harm.”
“Perhaps not; but, I say, don’t stand fiddling about with that whistle. Blow, man, blow, and let the lads know where we are. I don’t want to be shot now by our own men: too degrading, that.”
Drew placed the whistle to his lips, and the shrill, penetrating, chirruping call rang out, while Dickenson stood looking upward towards the top of the bank.
Then Robin he put him his horn to his mouth
And a blast he did loudly blow,
While quick at the call his merry men all
Came tripping along in a row!
He half-hummed, half-sang the old lines in a pleasant baritone voice, and then listened.
“Don’t see many merry men tripping—poor, hungry beggars! Blow again, Drew, old man. Why don’t they stop firing?”