"Have you any water in your bottle, Kamerad?" said the man in excellent English.
"Yes, here you are," replied the boy, unshipping it and handing it to him; "are you badly hurt?"
The Prussian emptied the bottle before he made answer. "Both legs broken," he said; "might be worse, might be better."
The man's cynical laugh jarred on young Wetherby's finer feelings, shaken as he was by the acute agony he was suffering, and he dragged himself on again, the cold sweat standing in great beads on his forehead.
He had scarcely placed twice his own length between himself and the Prussian officer when the brute, who was shamming wounded all the time, levelled his revolver at the tortured boy, and lodged two blunt-nosed bullets in his back!
"Great Scott! Did you see that?" shouted Dennis.
"Yus, not 'arf!" And he and Hawke jumped off the mark together, racing neck and neck out into the open, heedless of a withering fire from some machine-guns that began to play on the slope.
The German cowered flat as a pancake, his head turned sideways, watching them as they came.
"Had they seen?" he thought, "or was this some senseless freak of those mad-brained English?"
The next moment any doubt in his mind vanished, all the blood left the scoundrel's face, and, starting to his knees, he covered the foremost figure with his weapon. Twice he raised it, staring hard, and a feeling as of an electric shock passed through Dennis Dashwood as the pair recognised each other.
Then they fired their revolvers simultaneously, but the cylinders of both were empty, and into the livid face of Von Dussel there came an extraordinary look of mingled doubt and terror.
"But you are dead!" he gasped, as the memory of the mined brewery came back to him.
"Not the first mistake you have made, you infernal scoundrel!" shouted Dennis; and clubbing his revolver, he smote him fair and square between the eyes, dropping the spy like a stone.
"Stop, Hawke, I want that man alive!" panted the avenger, "he's got enough to go on with"; and, checking the remorseless bayonet with which Hawke was about to run him through, Dennis turned and knelt beside the body of his chum.
Little Wetherby was lying on his side, but his eyes brightened as he saw who it was.
"Go back, Dashwood," said the boy, speaking with difficulty, "it's no use, I'm done."
"Nonsense, old chap; we're going to get you in between us," said Dennis.
"Hawke and I can carry you."
"No, no--do go back, there's a dear fellow," gurgled the boy, a rush of blood from his lungs almost choking him. "But I say, Dashwood, there is one thing you might do for me. You'll find a writing pad in my kit-bag, the Mater would like to have it."
"She shall, Wetherby. But let's have a look at you, and see if we can stop the haemorrhage before we pick you up. Where did that fiend get you?"
"Through the heart," replied the dying boy. "Please let me lie here, and tell the Mater I don't regret it, except for her sake; say that I wouldn't have missed this for anything. I've only known what it was to live since I came out here!" And then, with his hand clasped in his friend's hand, Cuthbert Wetherby knew what it was to die, and passed into the great beyond with a fearless smile on his young lips.
Dennis had seen so many men "go out" in the few brief weeks of his fighting that he had deemed himself case-hardened against anything, but now he had to look away, a little ashamed that Hawke should see the spasm that came into his face.
"You are not the only one that's lost a pal to-night, Hawke," he said in a choking voice; "now give me a hand with this Prussian hog."
As Hawke jumped up with alacrity he gave a yell of positive anguish.
"Why didn't you let me tickle 'im in the ribs, sir? He's gone!" he howled.
CHAPTER XXXII
The Rewards of Valour
Von Dussel's head must have been as hard as his black heart, for he had recovered his senses at the moment Wetherby died, and a mighty gust of passion swept over Dennis Dashwood's soul.
"He can't be far off, and I'll find him if I die for it. Get you back to cover, Hawke."
"Is it likely?" cried his companion, giving vent to his overcharged feelings by a very ugly laugh, which changed into a howl of delight as a bullet grazed the tip of his ear. "There he is, sir, hiding in that there crater!--and he's some shot too--look out!"
Von Dussel, armed with a rifle--there were scores lying about littering the ground--lodged his second bullet in the leather case that held Dennis's field glasses, and, instantly dividing, the two ran a zigzag course towards the crater as they saw his head dodging down.
It was not twenty yards away, but as they reached it, one on either flank, they saw their prey scramble out of the opposite side and bolt like a hare across the open ground beyond.
There were two shell-holes in the distance, for one of which he was obviously making, but just as Hawke dropped to his knee and covered him with his rifle, the German searchlights went out, leaving everything pitch dark.
"That's done us, Hawke," cried Dennis bitterly, as the marksman of A Company fired a random shot.
"'Arf a mo, sir. If I didn't wing 'im, I'll bet I've 'eaded 'im orf to the right"; and he sent a brace of bullets pinging into the darkness.
"Lor lumme!" he chuckled the next moment, "there ain't no fool like an Allemong. What did he want to fire back for?" And he wiped a great gout of the chalky mud that had splashed up into his face as a Mauser bullet struck the ground between them. "'E's in that 'ole to the right--that's where we'll find 'im, sure as my name's 'Arry 'Awke. Come on, sir, don't make a sound!"
With the switching off of the searchlights the enemy barrage had ceased, and the deafening crash of the German shells was succeeded by a weird silence.
The distant boom of the British firing seemed very far off and almost insignificant in that sudden transition, and recharging his empty revolver as he went forward, Dennis wormed himself cautiously to the edge of the crump-hole, where he hoped to find his enemy.
It was still pouring in torrents as his chin came on a level with the ragged rim, but the fierce hope died out of his heart.
The shell-hole was an old one, the rain had filled it almost to the brim, and he ground his teeth, knowing that the spy had outwitted them after all. He knew now that, in spite of Hawke's shots, the villain with the charmed life must have chanced his arm and kept straight on between the two shell-holes, and would even then be nearing the German position, gloating over his success.
"I have missed the chance of my lifetime," he thought bitterly, when a star shell burst directly above him, lighting up the rain pool like a sheet of silver.
He had already picked himself up, and was clearing his throat to give his unseen companion a hail, when a warning whistle came from the opposite edge of the hole, and he saw Hawke's head and shoulders and a pointing arm.
Among the splashing raindrops in the centre of the pool a white face parted the water.
It was Von Dussel come up to breathe, and as the face sank out of sight again, Dennis dived in after it, regardless of all consequences.
Major Dashwood and the Brigadier, stumbling forward along the German communication, met three men carrying something between them, and the third man had the fingers of his left hand twined in a tight clutch on the collar of one of the bearers.
"What is all this, Dennis?" demanded the Brigadier, who had been an indignant witness of that strange chase, without in the least understanding what it meant.
"Little Wetherby dead, pater, and Von Dussel very much alive, and none the worse for a cold bath," came the answer; "the court martial that sits on his wife to-morrow will be able to kill two birds with one stone."
"My wife!" exclaimed the spy. "Ottilie in your hands!"