"All right, that's a promise," said Dennis, and he climbed cautiously up to the lip of the hole and peeped over. A wave of the enemy had just passed on, swallowed up in the dense vapour of the smoke-bombs, and as the two cousins flung themselves on their faces they heard the Lee-Enfields opening from their own trench. So long as the smoke lasted they were safe from detection, but the whole air seemed alive with singing bullets, and Dennis felt a jar all along his right side as one of our own shots carried off the heel of his boot. "Keep your direction, for Heaven's sake!" he called over his shoulder. "We've a hundred yards to go in a straight line," and then no one spoke, as the quartet wormed themselves on their stomachs as fast as they could crawl, parallel with the two trench lines which bordered that strip of No Man's Land. Tiddler's bayonet was wrenched from the muzzle of his rifle, and a bullet chipped the brim of Hawke's steel helmet. "Now look out for yourselves," called Dennis. "We're level with the gun," and, trying to squeeze themselves flatter, if such a performance had been humanly possible, they heard the rhythmical tac-tac abreast of them and the weird whistle of the deadly stream of bullets a few feet above their heads. "That's better," said Dan Dunn when they had left it behind them. "Where shall we turn off, old chap?" "Not yet," replied Dennis through his clenched teeth. "A bit farther, and then we shall have to face the music of our own men. That's why I'd rather have come on this job alone." "Are you playing up for the V.C.?" he heard his cousin say, but he made no answer, and at the end of another couple of minutes he paused to take breath. "Talk abart a bloomin' obstacle race--I got fust prize at Aldershot at the regimental sports--but this 'ere takes the cake," said Harry Hawke, as he and Tiddler overtook them. "Hawke!" said Dennis sharply, "we're going to turn here and make for our own trench. Do you know any signal or any call that would prevent our platoon blazing at us?" "Let's get a bit nearer fust," replied Harry Hawke. "Then I'll tip 'em a whistle. Wust of it is, the Boches are so bloomin' ikey--they 'aven't 'arf played us up before--but we'll try it on," and he said something to his companion. Still on their faces, but swinging round at right angles now, the little party groped its perilous way towards their own sandbags, hearing the roar of the fight apparently limited in their direction by the spot on which the German machine-gun was working. In front of them all was quiet.