"Perfectly true, Hawke, that's a fact," said Captain Bob, the light strong upon him now; and no one saw the grip that fell on Harry Hawke's wrist, a grip that cemented the friendship between officer and man for ever and a day. "Very well," said the lieutenant. "Get back to your company now--or all that's left of it"; and as the two rascals hurried away he looked from Bob to Dennis, and said, with a laugh of immense relief in the words of Galileo of old, "All right, you beggars, 'but it moves for all that!'" CHAPTER XXII The Row in the Restaurant "Stand down, Reedshires! File off by your right!" And the shattered remnant of that fine battalion groped its way along a broken communication trench to the rear, as a fresh battalion from the reserves took over the trench they had won at such terrible cost. They carried Bob Dashwood with them, and Dennis stumbled along like one in a dream; back past the shell-torn wood, through the village, or rather, the village heaps, and so to the rear, where they were to go into billets until the drafts should bring them up to fighting strength again. It was a toilsome march, and the little band seemed strangely insignificant as it passed other eager battalions hurrying up into the firing line, all eleven hundred strong, some even more. One of these came swinging by, singing a lusty chorus: "We're here--because we're here--because we're here--because we're here!" etc., and a voice called out, "What cheer, mateys--who are you?" "The Royal Reedshires!" was the proud reply. "What's your crowd?" "Dirty Dick's!" "Then good luck to you"; and Harry Hawke, remembering a certain famous hostelry in his native land of Shoreditch, felt a fierce thirst come over him. "I'd give somethink to be in Dirty Dick's just na'--wouldn't you, Cockie?" he murmured hoarsely to his left-hand file. "Not 'arf, I wouldn't," responded Tiddler with a great gulp. Before long they left our own batteries behind them, and the roar of the firing, which never ceased, grew muffled in the distance. They turned aside after a while, for the road was wanted for the motor ambulances carrying their loads of maimed and mangled men from the advanced dressing-stations to the Divisional Field Hospital, and meeting them were the big lorries rushing up food, their headlights shining brightly in long perspective until the approach of dawn extinguished them. Then, when the grey light stole over the gently undulating country, officers and men looked at each other and at the battalion, and the tired faces were wan and sunken with something that was not mere physical fatigue.