‘That’s all right,’ said Roy Horan in a tone of considerable satisfaction.  ’What do we do, Carrington—­just wallop these grenades in on top of ’em?’

’No, they’re not percussion—­worse luck!  We’ve got to light the fuses before we chuck them.  That’s awkward for two reasons.  They may see our matches, and then we’ve got to be pretty nippy about using them.  If we’re not, it’s we who’ll get the bust up—­not the Turks.’

‘Sounds, interesting,’ remarked Roy coolly.  ’See here, Carrington, the best thing, so far as I can see, is for us to slip down to our old place, right under the parapet of the pit.  That’s our only chance of getting to close quarters.’

‘A frontal attack,’ put in Dave.  ’What price our heads if they start shooting off the gun?’

’They probably won’t start until they have light enough to see where they’re shooting,’ returned Ken.  ‘Horan’s notion is all right.  Come on.’

‘But mind you,’ he whispered urgently, ’we must keep one bomb for the gun.  You’d best throw yours first, Horan, and as soon as it’s gone off, let ’em have it with your pistol.  Then, if there are any of ’em left, you whack yours in, Dave.’

He crept away, the others followed, and a few moments later they found themselves crouching close together under the low parapet of the rifle pit.  There was light enough for them to see—­just above their heads—­the ugly gray muzzle of the mitrailleuse peeping out through an embrasure in the earthen bank.

All of a sudden, without the slightest warning, a tongue of flame spat from the muzzle, and with a deafening rattle a hail of bullets sprayed out over their heads, directed at the trench a bare two hundreds yards away.

‘Quick!’ cried Ken.  ‘We must stop that,’ and with all speed he pulled out his match-box.  The crackle of the firing drowned his words, but that did not matter.  The others understood.

Ken struck a match, and Roy held out the fuse of his bomb.  Luckily there was no wind.  The fuse caught and instantly began to hiss and splutter.

With reckless disregard for danger, Roy sprang upon the parapet.  Ken had one glimpse of the tall figure towering over him, one hand raised high overhead.

Then the arm flashed forward as Roy dashed the grenade full into the centre of the pit.

There followed a stunning report—­a noise so loud that Ken felt as though his very ear-drums were cracked.  At the same time Horan staggered back off the parapet, and the quick-firer ceased firing.

‘Now, yours, Dave,’ said Ken, and without delay Dave lobbed his grenade, the fuse of which Ken had already lighted, into the pit.

But by this time the survivors from the first explosion had pulled themselves together and collected their wits.  Before the second grenade could explode, it was hurled back.  It went right over Dave’s head and rolling down the hill exploded with a deafening roar.