'But if they talk to us?' objected Roy.

'Then I'll talk back. I know the language.'

As he spoke, Ken was swiftly stripping one of the dead Turks of his
overcoat. The others did the same, and within an incredibly short time all
three were wearing dead men's clothes. The coats sat oddly on their long
frames, but fortunately there was as yet very little light, and in the
gray gloom they presented a tolerable resemblance to the late tenants of
the rifle pit.

They had hardly completed the change when the officer who was leading the
party reached the edge of the pit.

'Why are you not firing?' he demanded, and by his harsh guttural voice Ken
knew him at once for a German.

'We are out of ammunition,' he answered readily.

'Schweine Hund! Do you not know enough to say "Sir" to an officer when he
addresses you?'

'Your pardon, sir,' said Ken gruffly. 'The light is so bad, and my eyes
sting with the powder smoke.'

'They will sting worse if you do not mend your manners,' retorted the
German brutally.

Ken, boiling inwardly, had yet wisdom enough to hang his head and make no
reply.