“Ye silfish baste!” howled Finnessy. “Ye’d spoil me chance for the V. C., would ye!”
“Silfish baste ye’ersilf!” roared Moloney. “’Tis me own chance! And in ye’ll go on me back, dead or alive!”
Moloney and Finnessy reached for each other.
Back in the trenches of the Irish Guards the young subaltern, peering through a loop-hole, saw dimly through the growing dusk the struggles of Moloney and Finnessy.
“Poor devils,” he muttered, “must be in agony. Didn’t know any were left alive out there.”
Even as he spoke a wiry figure beside him sprang to the top of the parapet and started toward the struggling men.
Now the enemy’s trench awoke again, but presently, through the zone of death, the subaltern and all who could secure loop-holes saw that wiry figure slowly crawling, crawling back toward their trench, dragging behind him two reluctant but exhausted men.
As the limp bodies of Finnessy and Moloney slid down into the trench a cheer broke forth from the men which drowned the noise of the firing.
Slowly Finnessy and Moloney opened their eyes. The subaltern was speaking:
“Sergeant O’Reilly,” he said, “if such a thing were possible, you deserve and should have another Victoria Cross!”