denly shouted: "Now you
have them, men! Down with these infernal English!" And, reversing his
own weapon, he fired three shots at Dennis Dashwood in rapid succession.

The treachery was so unexpected that Dennis could do no more than duck
his head, and even then the third bullet buckled the brim of his trench
helmet; but as the barrel of the German's revolver clicked harmlessly
round, showing that it was empty, Dennis lunged upward.

"Sorry, sir!" said a voice at his elbow. "He was your bird." And a man
of the platoon, who had been a gamekeeper before he joined up, withdrew
his own bayonet, which had buried itself simultaneously in the cowardly
brute's ribs.

But there was no time for thanks, for the enemy had responded to the
treacherous command, and a terrific hand-to-hand fight ensued in the
half-demolished dug-out.

When the magazines had been emptied, butt and bayonet came into play at
close quarters, and men clutched each other in a death struggle, and
rolled over and over, howling like wolves.

Once, indeed, Dennis found himself driven backwards into the mouth of
the passage by two beefy fellows attacking him at the same time, and it
was only by dropping his rifle and using his revolver that he saved
himself from certain death.

As it was, although the Reedshires had taken heavy toll and reduced the
odds considerably, three of the platoon were down, and a fourth reeled,
badly wounded, against the side of the dug-out.

The four who should have provided a welcome reinforcement had missed
the turning, and continued straight along the covered communication, and
now nine of the enemy, springing back on to the top of the fallen earth
to take breath, collected for a rush that could have but one end.

"Quick, men!" cried Dennis, snatching up the ex-gamekeeper's rifle,
which the poor chap would never use again, "get into the passage, and
slip in another clip! You've just time, if I can hold them up for a
moment!"

The survivors of that little band each told the story afterwards with
variations, but all were agreed on two points.

One was the blinding flash as a bomb fell into the middle of the Germans
through the shell-hole in the roof. The other was the voice of Captain
Bob, sounding strangely distinct in the death-like silence that followed
the explosion as he called out: "Have you had enough in there, or would
you like another one?"

Then they lifted up their voices in a great shout of "Hold on, sir!" And