The subaltern saluted and withdrew. It was now three o'clock and an hour and three-quarters were to elapse before the battalion went into action.
"Looks as if we've cornered the beggars, Mr. Wilmshurst," remarked the major, when Dudley had communicated the C.O.'s message. "I suppose they are still there," he added.
The two officers searched the crest of the hill through their field-glasses. So elaborate and skilful were the enemy defences that the powerful lenses failed to detect any trace of the rifle pits and sand-bagged parapets of the trenches. Nor were any troops visible. The top of the table-land looked as deserted as an unexplored land in the Polar regions.
Wilmshurst lowered his binoculars. He was about to make some reply when to the accompaniment of a shrill whistling sound his helmet was whisked from his head, falling to the ground a good ten feet from where he stood.
For some minutes the two officers regarded each other, the major anxiously the other whimsically.
"Hit?" asked the major laconically.
"No, sir," replied Wilmshurst.
"Jolly near squeak," continued the other. "I think we'll choose a little less exposed position to resume our observations."
Dudley retrieved his helmet. A couple of clean-cut holes marked the entry and exit of a bullet, the missile having missed the subaltern's head by a fraction of an inch.
"We've drawn their fire, sir," he exclaimed. "They are still there."