ler, jumping to his feet. "Run for all you're worth, sir!"

His companions needed no second bidding, and in another minute they were
clambering up the outer face of the parapet and falling in a heap on to
the fire step inside.

"Well, I'm blowed!" said Ginger Bill, as they picked themselves up.

"And you ain't the only one," panted Harry Hawke. "Where's the other
chaps?"

And then he saw that Ginger Bill was bleeding badly.

"Ordered over there at the double--ain't none of you got any ears?" said
Ginger Bill, pointing to the hand-to-hand scrimmage which seemed to end
in front of the Dashwoods' dug-out.

Harry Hawke, very excusably overstepping the deference due to
commissioned rank, clutched the skirt of Dennis's tunic and nearly
pulled him backwards.

"We four ain't no good, sir, in that scrum, but there's a shell-proof
bomb store not a minute's run down this 'ere traverse. We could give 'em
socks then!"

"Bravo, Hawke!" shouted Dennis. "Come on, Dan; he's right!" And they
tore along the traverse like men possessed.

Back they came, Hawke and Tiddler girdled with a belt of racket bombs,
Dennis and Dan Dunn each laden with two bags of that deadly variety so
handy to the arm of the bowler.

Ginger Bill gave them a cheer as they went past him, but they heard
nothing and saw nothing but that solid mass of grey German uniforms,
wedged like herrings in a barrel where they had no right to be--in a
British trench!

Without a moment's hesitation Dennis sprang on to the parados, and
hurled bomb after bomb with perfect aim into the grey mass, which
instantly began to yell and squirm as panic seized it. Nothing human
could withstand that terrific shower that rained upon the victorious
Saxons, who had been recovering their second wind; and as a lucky shell
from one of our 18-pounders put the Prussian machine-gun out of action,
Dan Dunn mounted the parapet, leaving the trench clear for Hawke and
Tiddler.

The four advanced steadily, bombing as they went.

"Hold on!" sang a voice as Dennis reached the mouth of the next
traverse. And, looking down, he saw that it was Bob who spoke, and
behind him thirty or forty men of the platoon, who had been forced to
take refuge there from the overwhelming rush of the enemy.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" cried the captain, darting out, revolver in hand.
"Come on, boys! The bombers have got a move on them; it's our turn now!"
And as Dennis launched a long ball, the men of the platoon po