Fate suddenly gave him the right chance. The unseen figure stood up and moved a step, till his back was against the parados. He actually brushed against Peter’s elbow, who held his breath.
There is a catch that the Kaffirs have which would need several diagrams to explain. It is partly a neck hold, and partly a paralysing backward twist of the right arm, but if it is practised on a man from behind, it locks him as sure as if he were handcuffed. Peter slowly got his body raised and his knees drawn under him, and reached for his prey.
He got him. A head was pulled backward over the edge of the trench, and he felt in the air the motion of the left arm pawing feebly but unable to reach behind.
“Be still,” whispered Peter in German; “I mean you no harm. We are friends of the same purpose. Do you speak German?”
“Nein,” said a muffled voice.
“English?”
“Yes,” said the voice.
“Thank God,” said Peter. “Then we can understand each other. I’ve watched your notion of signalling, and a very good one it is. I’ve got to get through to the Russian lines somehow before morning, and I want you to help me. I’m English—a kind of English, so we’re on the same side. If I let go your neck, will you be good and talk reasonably?”
The voice assented. Peter let go, and in the same instant slipped to the side. The man wheeled round and flung out an arm but gripped vacancy.
“Steady, friend,” said Peter; “you mustn’t play tricks with me or I’ll be angry.”