“Say, Loo-tenant,” said Rawbon, panting hard.  “There’s no crossin’ that mud puddle Fry-Pan.  They’re holding the barricade ’cross there; got loopholes an’ shootin’ through ’em.  Can’t we climb out an’ over the open an’ on top of ’em?”

“No good,” said Courtenay.  “They’re sweeping it with maxims.  Listen!”

Up to then Rawbon had heeded nothing above the level of the trench and the hollow but now he could hear the steady roar of rifle and maxim fire, and the constant whistle of bullets streaming overhead.

“I must rally another crowd and try’n’ rush it,” said Courtenay.  “Stand ready with that maxim there.  I won’t be long.”

“I’ve got a box of bombs here, sir,” said a man behind him.

Courtenay turned sharply.  “Good,” he said.  “But no—­it’s too far to throw them.”

“I think I could just about fetch it, sir,” said the man.

“All right,” said Courtenay.  “Try it while I get some men together.”

“Here y’ are, chum,” said the man, “you light ’em an’ I’ll chuck ’em.  This way for the milky coco-nuts!”

Rawbon watched curiously.  The bomb was round shaped and rather larger than a cricket ball.  A black tube affair an inch or two long projected from it and emitted, when lit, a jet of hissing, spitting sparks.  The bomb-thrower seized the missile quickly, stepped clear of the sheltering corner of the trench, threw the bomb, and jumped back under cover.  A couple of bullets slapped into the wall of the trench, and next moment the bomb burst.

“Just short,” said the thrower, who had peeped out at sound of the report.  “Let’s ’ave another go.”

This time a shower of bullets greeted him as he stepped out, but he hurled his bomb and stepped back in safety.  A third he threw, but this time a bullet caught him and he reeled back with blood staining the shoulder of his tunic.

“You’ll ’ave to excuse me,” he remarked gravely to the man with the match.  “Can’t stay now.  I ’ave an urgent appointment in Blighty.[Footnote:  England.  A soldier’s corruption of the Hindustani word “Belati.”] But I’ll drink your ’ealth when I gets to Lunnon.”

Rawbon had watched the throwing impatiently.  “Look here,” he said suddenly.  “Just lemme have a whale at this pitching.  I’ll show ’em some curves that’ll dazzle ’em.”

The wounded man peered at him and then at his cap badge.  “Now ’oo the blank is this?” he demanded.  “Blimey, Joe, if ’ere ain’t a blooming Universal Plum-an’-Apple Provider.  ’Ere, ’oo stole the strawberry jam?”

“You let me in on this ball game,” said Rawbon.  “Light ’em and pass ’em quick, and see me put the Indian sign on that bunch.”

A minute later Courtenay came back and stared in amazement at the scene.  Two men were lighting and passing up bombs to the sergeant, who, standing clear out in the opening, grabbed and hurled the balls with an extraordinary prancing and dancing and arm-swinging series of contortions, while the crowded trench laughed and applauded.