“Garn!”
Red, with a word, broke up the group, and addressed the sergeant:
“Hullo, Small. What’s happened?”
“I was takin’ a spy, and Wilibald ’ad a drive at me. Clipped my cheek, ’e did,” said Small, in the aggrieved voice of the N.C.O. whose dignity has been touched.
“Then, for God’s sake, don’t take a spy, Small, until you learn how to do it without offering a target. Let’s see your cheek. Only a scratch. That’s lucky. Now, did you see where the shot was fired from?”
“Beyond that it come from the left flank, I did not, sir. I——”
“All right. Go and get your cheek bandaged.”
As the sergeant saluted and went off down the trench, Red, having ordered the observers to keep a good look-out upon the enemy trench, took off his cap, and, fixing it on his stick, told Bill to raise it slightly above the parapet until the badge of a famous regiment glinted in the sun, while he watched.
Nothing happened.
Red laughed.