"Murgatroyd, of the Rutlands," he replied.
"Keep still."
There was a momentary flash of light.
"Don't fire!" called Ginger, instantly realising that his uniform must have been seen. "I surrender."
"Hands up and come on."
Ginger was just rising when bullets sang over his head from behind. He dropped down again; his last chance was gone; they would believe he was tricking them. But he heard an officer give an order. There was no answering fire from the trench in front, no repetition of the volley from the rear. He crawled on, dimly seeing the parapet a few yards away.
"I surrender," he repeated, and crawled on, over the sandbags, was seized by rough hands, hauled headlong into the trench, and held firmly by the neck.
"Got him, sir," said a voice.
CHAPTER XVII
STRATEGY