Dicky felt the horrible slowness over everything—that somehow there was not in this man’s volition the power to order the firing to cease. No recognition showed in Fyatt’s eyes. He stared. It was like the man who had stared at him on the docks in Bombay, when he heard that America had entered the War.
“Well, sir!”
Dicky felt rebuked. Then came to his ears again the terrible drowning cry of the children, and he saw Fyatt differently—not as England; at least, not all of England—a black crooked finger operating merely—the face of England turned away.
“I only wanted to ask——” Dicky stopped and raised his voice above the tumult of shots and voices. “Cobden of New York—saw you in France!”
It was utterly ridiculous to yell one’s identity. He had forgotten that his face might look different under a bandage. The field glass that had been partly raised again was whipped down. The hooks tightened.
“Ah, Cobden. Heard you were in town. Busy, you know!”
“I see!” the American yelled back. He felt like a maniac. “I see! I merely wanted to ask, General, if you had gone mad—or have I?”
A young officer ran between them reporting that the ammunition was running out.
“Sixteen hundred and fifty rounds, sir. Mainly used up. Some of the men finished——”