They hurried forward, for they had all seen a writhing figure in khaki a few yards ahead, and a sickening chill passed over Dennis as he recognised his brother subaltern, young Delavoy-Bagotte, lying on his back with a tree-trunk across his legs. Over the same trunk was another figure, which did not move, and face downwards a yard away lay a third man with his back broken. Half buried in the chalky soil was the Lewis gun they had been carrying forward when the shell fell. "By Jove, Bagotte, old man, this is rotten luck!" exclaimed Dennis. "I'm afraid you've got it badly." The boy--he was only eighteen, but the ribbon of the Military Cross was on the breast of his tunic--set his teeth hard and nodded as they removed the body of the other man and lifted the tree-trunk away from his legs by main force. "Yes, pretty badly, Dashwood. My thighs are smashed to a jelly," he said. "But don't worry about me. I believe the Lewis is all right. Get along with it. The stretcher bearers will be up presently. Are my mates dead?" "Yes," said Dennis--it was no good mincing matters--"but I can't leave you like this." "Don't be an ass," said Delavoy-Bagotte. "You can do no good by staying, and you will only worry me. Look to the gun, I tell you. Your company would never have crossed that stream behind yonder if I hadn't got on to the beggars' flank with it." "That's a fact, old man," assented Dennis. "And it won't be forgotten when Bob makes his report." And while he was speaking he picked up that most marvellous of modern weapons, the Lewis gun, and found it unharmed. "She's all right," he said. "Do you really mean me to go on?" "Yes, confound you! I shall have to howl in another minute, and I want to do it alone," said the plucky boy between his teeth. He was suffering untold agonies and they knew it; but they knew also that he was right; and Dennis made a sign to Hawke and Tiddler, who saluted the young lieutenant as they left him. Keeping just within the fringe of the wood, Dennis shouldering the gun, while Hawke and Tiddler carried the field mount and the spare magazines, the adventurous three soon reached the angle in front of the ridge. The stump of a well-grown beech stood up there, towering above the ground twenty feet or more. Its crest had been carried away by a shell, but one stout branch jutted out like the arm of a gallows; and Harry Hawke had a brain wave. "'Arf a mo, sir," he said, laying his wallet down. And the next moment he was clambering up the tree until he reached the bough, where he supported himself for a minute or two on his elbows, taking stock of the enemy. When he came sliding down again his eyes were dancing, and his voice was husky. "If we could only get the gun up there, sir," he whispered excitedly, "the rest's as easy as kiss your hand. You can see the trench and the head of the bloke what's working that tac-tac of theirs. Have a look for yourself, sir." And Dennis made the climb, finding it as Hawke had said.