'Dave, will you come?' said Ken.
'Will a terrier hunt rats?' was Dave's answer.
'And I want Roy Horan, sergeant, if he's alive. He's a New Zealander.'
'Pass the word for Horan,' said the sergeant, and the whisper went rapidly down the long trench.
'Who'll be the fourth?' Ken asked of Dave.
'Take Dick Norton. He's a Queensland ex-trooper. He's been in with the black trackers, and moves like a dingo.'
'The very man,' said Ken. 'Where is he?'
Norton, as it happened, was only a few yards away. He came up eagerly, a slim, dark man with keen gray eyes and a nose like a hawk's beak.
A moment later, and Roy Horan's giant form came slipping rapidly up to the little group, and Ken at once explained what was wanted.
'Carrington, you're an angel in khaki,' said Horan rejoicingly. 'I'm your debtor for life.'