For a few moments he lay inert with hopelessness. Then an idea occurred to him. On again, inch by inch, feeling out for barbed wire. There was none; the position must have been hurriedly occupied. The voices were more distinct; his straining cars caught individual words. "English, I surrender!" he called in a low tone. The voices were hushed. "Who goes there?" said a voice. "Murgatroyd, of the Rutlands," he replied. "Keep still." There was a momentary flash of light. "Don’t fire!" called Ginger, instantly realising that his uniform must have been seen. "I surrender." "Hands up and come on." Ginger was just rising when bullets sang over his head from behind. He dropped down again; his last chance was gone; they would believe he was tricking them. But he heard an officer give an order. There was no answering fire from the trench in front, no repetition of the volley from the rear. He crawled on, dimly seeing the parapet a few yards away. "I surrender," he repeated, and crawled on, over the sandbags, was seized by rough hands, hauled headlong into the trench, and held firmly by the neck. "Got him, sir," said a voice. CHAPTER XVII STRATEGY "Don’t throttle me," Ginger murmured, scarcely able to speak from physical exhaustion and the reaction from mental strain. "Are you the Rutlands?" "No, we ain’t. Got a special fancy for the Rutlands, ’eemingly." "I’m Murgatroyd, No. 939, 17th battalion, 3rd company, 1st platoon," said Ginger feebly. "Oh, we know all about that. You German blighters all speak English, but you don’t come it over us." "Silence, Barnet; bring him along," said the officer. "Yes, sir. Says he’s a Rutland, sir." Ginger was taken along the dark trench to a dug-out lit by a candle-lamp. The lieutenant looked at him. The uniform was German, from helmet to boots: the Iron Cross was on his breast; but the dirty, lined, unshaven face was not that of a German officer. "Who do you say you are?" said the lieutenant, puzzled. "Murgatroyd, lance-corporal in the 17th Rutlands, sir: called Ginger, sir: look at my hair." He removed the helmet. The lieutenant laughed. "The name suits you," he said. "But what have you been up to?" "Taking French leave and German toggery, sir," said Ginger. "Beg pardon; could you give me a drink? My mouth’s that parched. I’m all of a shake." Refreshed by a cup of tea, Ginger told his story. "A regular romance," said the lieutenant. "You’re as plucky as you are lucky. By George! I should like to have seen the German taking off his uniform. He must have been very mad." "He had a very swanky shirt, sir, but I couldn’t stop to take that. Can I get back to my billet, sir?" "Certainly. I’ll send a man with you out of the trenches. You go round by the church, you know." "I’ll find my way, sir, never fear. If you’d give me a cigarette or two...."