'What the mischief have you got there?' inquired Dave. 'What is it?'

'A bomb. One of the German hand grenades. Quick! See if there are any in
your pockets?'

Hastily the others thrust their hands into their pockets and each hand
came back with a similar bomb.

'That settles it,' said Ken happily. 'Two for the men, and one for the
gun. We've got 'em now--got 'em on toast.'

As he spoke he crept out of the bush, and took a cautious peep in the
direction of the rifle pit.

'They're just setting the gun up,' he muttered. 'And the German beggar has
gone back the way he came. So far as I can see, there are not more than
four or five men with the gun.'

'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.'