For two minutes Boone scribbled frantically. The fighting blood of all the Cruttendens was coursing in his veins. He forgot the official form of address: he omitted certain prescribed formulæ—the date, the hour, his own geographical position but he overlooked nothing else. The despatch, when completed, read:
Dear Major, the Hun is going to raid you. So far as I can see it will be between the points A and B on attached sketch. I suggest you send out a m.-g. to shell-hole marked X, from which you can enfilade whole front in danger. Come to shell-hole yourself, or send some one, and I will come along and warn you as soon as I see them start.
“Take that to Major Powers right away,” he said. “As you pass through the shell-hole warn the Sergeant, and tell him to expect a machine gun there. But whatever you do, find the Major! Try Battalion Headquarters first—in the support-line. If he is not there, he’ll be in the firing-trench. But find him, whatever you do, and quick!”
“I’ll find him,” replied the retired bell-hop, confidently. “Why, I found people in the Biltmore before now!”
He began to creep away.
“Come back here, of course,” added Boone.
Mr. Gogarty chuckled hoarsely.
“Cap,” he replied, “you betcher!”
Ten minutes passed. Boone, tingling like an induction coil, watched the progress of the raiding-party. They were moving very methodically, keeping a beautiful line. Whenever a Verey light burst above them, or the moon asserted herself, they were flat on their faces in a moment; but during the next period of darkness they always seemed to cover another twenty yards. They were halfway across now, almost exactly opposite to Boone.
