One of the men obeyed promptly, begging the while for quarter.
"Course you'll save your hide, Fritz," said his conqueror encouragingly. "Mike, take that blighter out of it, will yer?"
Remained one Hun, a tall, broad-shouldered lout, with a face that had animal cunning and ferocity written on every line of it. He stood with his rifle and bayonet at the "ready." His last cartridge had been spent. He was determined to fight to the last.
"Up with 'em!" yelled Ginger, brandishing the Mills bomb, while other men of the platoon gradually closed in upon the solitary Prussian.
The Hun made no attempt to comply. Snarling, he lunged ineffectually at a Wheatshire who had come almost within reach of the glittering steel.
"Hanged if I can do the bloomer in with this," exclaimed Ginger, placing his supply of bombs on the ground and grasping his rifle.
"Form a ring, chums, an' see fair play. Now, Fritz, it's either you or me."
"I haf no chance," replied the Prussian. "If out I come der odders vill shoot in my back."
"Don't talk rot, Dutchy," protested Anderson. "We ain't 'Uns. Either 'ands up or fight me!"
The Prussian had more faith in a British Tommy's word than he had in his own. Still snarling, he emerged cautiously from his retreat; then, finding that no attempt was made on the part of the other men to molest him, he crouched behind his bayonet and stealthily approached the imperturbable Cockney.