The Commander told Glover to ask Captain Williams to speak to him.
Glover bolted off, only too glad to have anything to do, gave his message, and ran back.
"Never run, boy; you are apt to get overheated," chuckled Cummins.
Poor young Glover looked fearfully ashamed of himself and grew as red as a tomato.
Williams was of the same opinion. "Let them go on cutting down the brushwood, sir."
Cummins nodded assent, and the necessary orders were given, the sergeants repeated them, with many flowery additions, and the men nervously rose to their knees and in a very half-hearted way prepared to obey.
"Leave your rifles, you fools!" shouted Sergeant Wilkins. "There are no niggers to shoot you. Get out of it, all of you!"
Once they got to work, spread out at wide intervals, they became less nervous, and Blue Marines and Red Marines vied with each other as to which should clear the wider space.
Williams and Saunderson worked among their men in the bushes, whilst Cummins sat on the sand-bag breastwork, Glover nervously hovering round him, and Dr. Richardson lying down by his side, waiting for a job.
Every now and then shells burst on the plateau, but it was evident that most of them were directed towards the gun, and Pattison and his men were having a very warm time of it.