"Good heavens!" ejaculated Penfold. "They've been done in. Who's going out, lads?" "Not much use at present," objected Alderhame. "The Huns are on the alert. When things have quieted down a bit, I'll go." "That's the spirit, lad," said Sergeant Ferris, who had joined the party of watchers. "Discretion is what's wanted now. We've chucked away two men over this business already, and all for the sake of a dirty German flag." Another twenty minutes passed. The Huns could be heard talking excitedly in their trenches, but the distance was too great to distinguish their words. Setley was of the opinion that Sidney was a prisoner. He fancied that he heard the lad's voice, but he could not be certain. "If they'd got Ginger," declared Penfold, "there would be no doubt of hearing his voice. Well, lads, are you fit?" The three men began to remove great-coats and everything likely to impede their movements. Suddenly Setley snatched up his rifle. "What's up, now?" asked the sergeant. "Something moving," declared the lad. The sentries, too, held their arms in readiness to open fire. "Steady on, chums," whispered Ginger. "Don't let rip. It's only me." He wriggled over the parapet and dropped inertly upon the fire-step. For some moments he lay like one dead, his comrades forbearing to question him. Presently he raised his head, and extending his hand showed a closely rolled bundle that was indistinguishable in the darkness. "I've got it, mates," he announced. "It's the flag we went out for. Got me baynit into one bloke's throat, an' didn't 'e scream." "Where's Sidney?" asked Penfold. "Ain't 'e back? I lost touch with 'im. 'Ere, I'm off out again!" "No, you don't," declared Sergeant Ferris firmly. "You'll be put under arrest if you attempt it. You're done up. Now, you fellows, if you're going you'd best look sharp about it. Take a rope, in case you find young Bartlett. Slip it round his heels, and drag him in if he cannot crawl." In spite of his resolution, Setley's heart was literally in his mouth when he found himself in contact with the slime of No Man's Land. At ten paces he had lost all idea of the whereabouts of his companions. Guided by the relative position of the Pole star, now shining feebly through the drifting smoke, he crawled slowly but steadily onwards towards the spot where the coveted flag had been planted. At frequent intervals star-shells burst overhead, throwing a blinding, ghostly glare upon the crater-pitted ground. Their appearance was the signal for Setley to throw himself flat upon the ground. The slightest movement would have resulted in a machine-gun being trained upon him. With his face pillowed on his arm--it was the only way of preventing a smothering acquaintance with the evil-smelling Somme mud--he was unable to take advantage of the light to look for his companions. Whether they were ahead, behind, or had relinquished their efforts, he was totally in ignorance.