ed.
They scrambled desperately upwards through the pelting storm of lead,
guided by the flashes from the muzzles of the Turkish rifles.

Ken was conscious of nothing but a fierce desire to get to close quarters,
and he and Dave Burney went up side by side at the very top of their
speed.

Before they knew it, a dark hollow loomed before them. A rifle snapped
almost in Ken's face--so close that he felt the scorch of the powder.
Without an instant's hesitation he drove his bayonet at a dark figure
beneath him, at the same time springing down into the trench. The whole
weight of his body was behind his thrust, and the Turk, spitted like a
fowl, fell dead beneath him.

[Illustration: 'He drove his bayonet at a dark figure.']

With an effort he dragged the blade loose. Only just in time, for a burly
man in a fez was swinging at his head with a rifle butt. Ken ducked under
his arm, turned smartly and bayoneted him in the side.

The whole trench was full of struggling men. The Turks fought well, but
good men as they are, they were no match for the long, lean six footers
who were upon them. Inside three minutes it was all over. Most of the
Turks were dead, the few survivors were prisoners.

'Lively while it lasted,' panted Dave's voice at Ken's elbow.

'You, Dave. Are you all right?'

'Lost my hat and my wind. Nothing else missing so far as I know. Are you
chipped?'

'Not a touch. But keep your head down. This is only the first act. There's
another trench above this one.'

During the struggle in the trench the firing had ceased entirely, but now
that it was over a pestilence of bullets began to pour again from higher
up the slope, and Ken's warning was useful--to say the least of it.

'What comes next?' asked Dave, as the two crouched together against the
rubbly wall of the trench.

'Get our second wind and tackle the next trench,' said Ken briefly.

His prophecy was correct. A couple of minutes later the order was passed
down to advance again.

In grim silence the men sprang out of their shelter and dashed forward.
There were no more star shells, but from up above began the ugly knocking
of a quick-firer. It sounded like a giant running a stick along an endless
row of palings, and the bullets squirted like water from a hose through
the thinning ranks of the Colonials.

It was worse than the first charge, for not only was the slope steeper,
but the face of the hill was covered with low, tough scrub, the tangled