"Double," he roared, giving the Germans a prick with his bayonet, but the crash of rifles and then the patter of feet told the daring sergeant that he was pursued.
Zip! went a bullet past his ear. Zip! went another, striking Micky in the leg [pg 256] and smashing a bone. He tumbled with a groan.
"Here, you German waiters—lift him," ordered Spud. The prisoners hesitated, but the stern look in the sergeant's face, as well as the danger of death from the rifles of their own friends, made them grab the wounded man and carry him on. A five minutes' run brought them to the spot where Spud's reserves were handy.
"Halt!" challenged Muldoon, jumping out of a hole.
"It's me, Pat—haud on here. Stop these scallywags that's chasing us up. Gie them a dose o' Rapid. They'll think they're up against a hunner men."
"Roight, sargint," replied Muldoon, assuming command of the reserves.
Spud with his unwilling bearers ran on, glad to be out of the danger zone. A few minutes afterwards, the German patrol, which had followed them, came panting and stumbling towards Muldoon's little army.
Z-r-r-p! crashed a volley. Cries of amazement and shrieks of pain rent the air.
Z-r-r-p! rattled another, and still another. The enemy fled in disorder towards their startled friends. Muldoon sent more volleys [pg 257] into the retreating host, and then retired about a hundred yards. Crash went his rifles again. The Germans were thoroughly checked and their whole line surprised.
"Back, bhoys, for the love of Saint Patrick," ordered Muldoon, leading his three men at a trot down the long winding road. They quickly pulled up on Spud and his burdened prisoners, and in half an hour were marching in triumph through their own lines.