“Why, sure; if you don’t mind, Loo-tenant,” said Rawbon, “I might as well see—­” He was interrupted by a sudden crash and roar, running bursts of flaring light, hoarse yells and shouts, and a few rifle shots from somewhere beyond the barricade across the Leak.  The work of the next minute was too fast and furious for Rawbon to follow or understand.  The uproar beyond the barricade swelled and clamored, and the earth shook to the roar of bursting bombs.  In the Frying Pan there was a sudden vision of confused figures, dimly seen through the swirling smoke, swaying and struggling, threshing and splashing in the liquid mud.  He was just conscious of Courtenay shouting something about “Get back,” of his being thrust violently back into the wide trench, of two or three figures crowding in after him, cursing and staggering and shooting back into the Frying Pan, of Courtenay’s voice shouting again to “Stand clear,” of a knot of men scrambling and heaving at something, and then of a deafening “Rat-tat-tat-tat,” and the streaming flashes of a machine-gun.  It stopped firing after a minute, and Rawbon, flattened back against a corner of the trench wall, heard an explanation given by a gasping private to Courtenay and another mud-bedaubed officer who appeared mysteriously from somewhere.

“Flung a shower o’ bombs an’ rushed us, sir,” said the private.  “They was over a-top o’ us ’fore you could say ‘knife.’  Only two or three o’ us that wasn’t downed and was able to get back out o’ the Leak an’ across the Pan to here.”

“We stopped them with the maxim,” said Courtenay, “but I suppose they’ll rush again in a minute.”

He and the other officer conferred hastily.  Rawbon caught a few words about “counterattack” and “quicker the better” and “all the men I can find,” and then the other officer moved hurriedly down the trench and men came jostling and crowding to the end of the Handle, just clear of the corner where it turned into the Pan.  A few sandbags were pulled down off the parapet and heaped across the end of the trench, the machine-gun was run close up to them and a couple of men posted, one to watch with a periscope, and the other to keep Verey pistol lights flaring into the Frying Pan.

Two minutes later the other officer returned, spoke hastily to Courtenay, and then calling to the men to follow, jumped the low barricade and ran splashing out into the open hollow with the men streaming after him.  A burst of rifle fire and the shattering crash of bombs met them, and continued fiercely for a few minutes after the last of the counter-attacking party had swarmed out.  But the attack broke down, never reached the barricade beyond the Pan, was, in fact, cut down almost as fast as it emerged into the open.  A handful of men came limping and floundering back, and Courtenay, waiting by the machine-gun in case of another German rush, caught sight of the face of the last man in.

“Rawbon!” he said sharply.  “Good Lord, man!  I’d forgotten—­What took you out there?”