"Did you hear what became of Robert MacGregor?" persisted Dudley.
"A thundering good old pal!" declared his brother heartily. "If he'd not been obliged to go back to Rhodesia I don't think I would have been landed in a German prison. I'd give a lot to shake old Bob by the hand again."
The subaltern regarded his brother intently. Rupert, he saw, was speaking quite naturally and without any trace of sarcasm. It was clear that he had not the slightest idea of the double, nay multi-dyed treachery of Ulrich von Gobendorff.
"Dash it all!" he soliloquised. "I can't enlighten old Rupert just now. Revelations must come later—if, as he remarked, we do come out of this business alive."
About four o'clock in the afternoon the irritating rifle fire ceased. Fifteen minutes passed without a shot winging its way from the dense scrub; and although one or two of the defenders boldly stood upon the parapet to draw the enemy, their tempting position brought no response.
"Guess we'll hike out and bring in some water," declared one. "No time like the present, and we are as dry as a bone."
"Very good," agreed the patrol-commander. "Only look sharp about it. This lull in the firing may mean that the Boches are up to some of their knavish tricks."
Accordingly five men, each carrying four jars, set off to the well. The dangers that Wilmshurst had encountered were now over, and in a short space of time the five returned. Although they had been in full view of the enemy positions throughout, their progress had not been molested by so much as a single shot.
"The blighters are saving it up for us for to-night," declared a trooper. "Wonder if a couple of us could steal through their lines and make our way to the main column? A few squadrons would make Fritz sit up."
"No use unless we were mounted," objected another; "and a fellow couldn't hope to dash through their lines at full gallop. He'd be chock full of bullets before he got within fifty yards of them."