“Bensington! We’ve bagged another of the rats!”
“Cossar’s bagged another of the rats!”
VI
When the expedition had finished refreshment, the night had fully come. The stars were at their brightest, and a growing pallor towards Hankey heralded the moon. The watch on the rat-holes had been maintained, but the watchers had shifted to the hill slope above the holes, feeling this a safer firing-point. They squatted there in a rather abundant dew, fighting the damp with whisky. The others rested in the house, and the three leaders discussed the night’s work with the men. The moon rose towards midnight, and as soon as it was clear of the downs, everyone except the rat-hole sentinels started off in single file, led by Cossar, towards the wasps’ nest.
So far as the wasps’ nest went, they found their task exceptionally easy—astonishingly easy. Except that it was a longer labour, it was no graver affair than any common wasps’ nest might have been. Danger there was, no doubt, danger to life, but it never so much as thrust its head out of that portentous hillside. They stuffed in the sulphur and nitre, they bunged the holes soundly, and fired their trains. Then with a common impulse all the party but Cossar turned and ran athwart the long shadows of the pines, and, finding Cossar had stayed behind, came to a halt together in a knot, a hundred yards away, convenient to a ditch that offered cover. Just for a minute or two the moonlit night, all black and white, was heavy with a suffocated buzz, that rose and mingled to a roar, a deep abundant note, and culminated and died, and then almost incredibly the night was still.
“By Jove!” said Bensington, almost in a whisper, “it’s done!”
All stood intent. The hillside above the black point-lace of the pine shadows seemed as bright as day and as colourless as snow. The setting plaster in the holes positively shone. Cossar’s loose framework moved towards them.
“So far—” said Cossar.
Crack—bang!
A shot from near the house and then—stillness.
“What’s that?” said Bensington.
“One of the rats put its head out,” suggested one of the men.
“By the by, we left our guns up there,” said Redwood.
“By the sacks.”
Everyone began to walk towards the hill again.
“That must be the rats,” said Bensington.
“Obviously,” said Cossar, gnawing his finger nails.
Bang!
“Hullo?” said one of the men.
Then abruptly came a shout, two shots, a loud shout that was almost a scream, three shots in rapid succession and a splintering of wood. All these sounds were very clear and very small in the immense stillness of the night. Then for some moments nothing but a minute muffled confusion from the direction of the rat-holes, and then again a wild yell … Each man found himself running hard for the guns.
Two shots.
Bensington found himself, gun in hand, going hard through the pine trees after a number of receding backs. It is curious that the thought uppermost in his mind at that moment was the wish that his cousin Jane could see him. His bulbous slashed boots flew out in wild strides, and his face was distorted into a permanent grin, because that wrinkled his nose and kept his glasses in place. Also he held the muzzle of his gun projecting straight before him as he flew through the chequered moonlight. The man who had run away met them full tilt—he had dropped his gun.
“Hullo,” said Cossar, and caught him in his arms. “What’s this?”
“They came out together,” said the man.
“The rats?”
“Yes, six of them.”
“Where’s Flack?”
“Down.”
“What’s he say?” panted Bensington, coming up, unheeded.
“Flack’s down?”
“He fell down.”
“They came out one after the other.”
“What?”
“Made a rush. I fired both barrels first.”
“You left Flack?”
“They were on to us.”
“Come on,” said Cossar. “You come with us. Where’s Flack? Show us.”
The whole party moved forward. Further details of the engagement dropped from the man who had run away. The others clustered about him, except Cossar, who led.
“Where are they?”
“Back in their holes, perhaps. I cleared. They made a rush for their holes.”
“What do you mean? Did you get behind them?”
“We got down by their holes. Saw ’em come out, you know, and tried to cut ’em off. They lolloped out—like rabbits. We ran down and let fly. They ran about wild after our first shot and suddenly came at us. Went for us.”
“How many?”
“Six or seven.”
Cossar led the way to the edge of the pine-wood and halted.
“D’yer mean they got Flack?” asked someone.
“One of ’em was on to him.”
“Didn’t you shoot?”
“How could I?”
“Everyone loaded?” said Cossar over his shoulder.
There was a confirmatory movement.
“But Flack—” said one.
“D’yer mean—Flack—” said another.
“There’s no time to lose,” said Cossar, and shouted “Flack!” as he led the way. The whole force advanced towards the rat-holes, the man who had run away a little to the rear. They went forward through the rank exaggerated weeds and skirted the body of the second dead rat. They were extended in a bunchy line, each man with his gun pointing forward, and they peered about them in the clear moonlight for some crumpled, ominous shape, some crouching form. They found the gun of the man who had run away very speedily.
“Flack!” cried Cossar. “Flack!”
“He ran past the nettles and fell down,” volunteered the man who ran away.
“Where?”
“Round about there.”
“Where did he fall?”
He hesitated and led them athwart the long black shadows for a space and turned judicially. “About here, I think.”
“Well, he’s not here now.”
“But his gun—?”
“Confound it!” swore Cossar, “where’s everything got to?” He strode a step towards the black shadows on the hillside that masked the holes and stood staring. Then he swore again. “If they have dragged him in—!”
So they hung for a space tossing each other the fragments of thoughts. Bensington’s glasses flashed like diamonds as he looked from one to the other. The men’s faces changed from cold clearness to mysterious obscurity as they turned them to or from the moon. Everyone spoke, no one completed a sentence. Then abruptly Cossar chose his line.
