“And we’ll see it through together.”
“You bet. Now, come on.”
Forward crept the two boys. In a few minutes they gained the edge of the declivity, through which they hoped to crawl, unseen by the insurgent gunners. Without a word, for it was not a situation which any words would fit, they emerged from the friendly cover of the brush, and began crawling along the bottom of the dusty dip. It seemed terribly shallow, now that they were in it, and, flat as they stretched themselves, Ned felt that they must look as big as elephants.
“Reminds me of the time I played in a show at the village hall,” whispered Herc, as they crawled through the dust. “I felt like I was the only thing on the stage.”
In times of great physical risk the mind sometimes remains almost dormant during the most dangerous part of the performance. So it was that, almost without knowing it, the Dreadnought Boys crossed the dip in the road and emerged unscratched in the government lines.
They were rudely recalled to themselves, however, by a sharp voice almost in their ears. Looking up, they saw a dark-skinned soldier, in a shabby uniform standing over them. His bayonet was fixed, and he looked formidable.
“What did he say?” whispered Herc.
“Something like ‘Speak, or I’ll shoot,’” rejoined Ned, holding up one hand in token that it was empty.