“How are things going, Duff?”
“We have got the ——s so that they can't move a foot, and we'll hold them, unless they bring up a lot of reserves.”
“By Jove! Duff, you boys are wonderful.”
“I say,” said Duff, brushing aside the compliment, “did young Pickles get through? That young devil is the limit. You'd have thought he was hunting coyotes.”
“Yes, he got through. Got a blighty though, I guess. It was he that told me about McCuaig.”
“Well, Pilot, old man,” said Duff, taking him by the arm, “get out! Get out! Don't waste time. There may be a break any minute. Get out of here.”
Duff was evidently in a fever of anxiety. “You had no right to come up here anyway; though, by Jove, I'm glad to see you.”
“What's the fuss, Duff?” said Barry. “Am I in any more danger than you? I say,” he continued, with tense enthusiasm, “do you realise, Duff, that as long as Canada lasts they will talk of what you are doing up here these days?”
“For Heaven's sake, Pilot, get out,” said Duff crossly. “You make me nervous. Besides, you have got to get that wounded man out, you know. Come along.”
He hustled Barry out and over to the neighbouring dugout, where they found McCuaig with his beloved machine gun still at his side. The wounded man was very pale, but extremely cheerful, smoking a cigarette.