As they came closer I recognised my lost lance-jack, very pale and shaky, a little thinner than usual, and with a hint of that gleam of sniper-madness which I have noticed before in the jumpy, unsteady eyes of hunted men.
The other two, one each side, were sturdy enough. Well-built men, one short and the other tall, with great rough hands, sunburnt faces, and bare arms. They wore brown leggings and riding-breeches and khaki shirts. They carried their rifles at the trail and strode up to us with the graceful gait of those accustomed to the outdoor life.
“Awstralians!” said some one.
“An' the corporal!”
Immediately our men roused up and gathered round.
“Where's yer boss?” asked the tall Colonial.
“The adjutant is over here,” I answered.
“We'd like a word with him,” continued the man. I took them up to the officer, and they both saluted in an easy-going sort of way.
“We found 'im up there,” the Australian jerked his head, “being sniped and couldn't git away—says 'e belongs t' th' 32nd Ambulance—so here he is.”
The two Australians were just about to slouch off again when the adjutant called them back.