A consultation between several of the men followed, then a voice spoke:
"In you come. Take your chance; but Heaven help you if you try any monkey-tricks. We'll riddle you."
The pilot waited till the blinding glare of a star-shell gave place to opaque darkness. Then, judging his direction, he made his way to the line of sandbags and crawled over the top.
Into the trench he rolled, to find himself confronted by the dull gleam of a bayonet.
"Looks all right, Sergeant," reported one of the men.
"Maybe," replied a non-com. "At anyrate take him along to the Platoon-Commander."
The subaltern was frankly sympathetic.
"You've had a rotten time, old man," he observed. "We'll send you back as soon as poss. There'll be a tender waiting on the other side of the canal, and you'll be in the dressing-station in half a jiffy. Risky work, yours."
"I wouldn't change jobs," replied Derek, striving to raise a smile, but disastrously. It was a difficult matter to use his facial muscles when an eyebrow was missing. "Yours is a sticky business, and, by Jove! a fellow can't help admiring the infantry. They've all the hard work to do."
"Collar-work, perhaps," agreed the Platoon-Commander. "But the way you fellows do stunts over Jerry's lines gives me the creeps."