moments. "Do you know something, Rassey old fellow, I do believe we
are being set up for a couple of Patsys." He glanced at the Ras, who
lay beside him like an old hunting dog that has been worked too hard;
his chest laboured like a blacksmith's bellows, and his breathing
whistled shrilly in his throat.
"Better take those choppers out of your mouth, old chap or else you're
going to swallow them. The fighting's over for the day. Take it nice
and easy now. We've got a long walk home tonight." And Gareth
Swales transferred all his attention back to the disappearing car.
"Big-hearted Jake Barton is leaving us here and going home to spoon up
the honey. Who was the chap that David pulled the same trick on? Come
on, Rassey, you are the Old Testament expert wasn't it
Uriah the Hittite?" He shook his head sadly. Gareth was already ready
to believe the worst. "I take it very much amiss, Rassey, I can tell
you.
Probably have done exactly the same myself, mind you but I do take it
amiss gaming from a fine upright citizen like Jake Barton." The Ras
had not listened to a word of it. He was the only man in the two
armies for whom the battle had not ended.
He was just having a short rest, as behave a warrior of his advanced
years. Now, with a single bound, he was on his feet again,
snatching up his sword and heading directly for the centre of the
Italian batteries. Gareth was taken completely off balance, and the
Ras had covered fifty yards of the necessary two thousand to the enemy
positions before Gareth could overtake him.
It was unfortunate that one of the Italian gun-layers had his
binoculars focused on the derelict hull of the Hump at that moment.
The belligerence of the Italian gunners was in inverse proportion to
the number and proximity of the enemy and all of them were giddy with
elation at the total and unexpected victory that had dropped into their
laps.
The first shell dropped close beside the broken hull of the Hump,
as Gareth caught up with the Ras. Gareth stooped and picked up a
rounded stone, about the size of a cricket ball.
"Frightfully sorry, old chap," he panted, as he cupped the stone in his
right hand. "But we really can't go on like this." He made allowance
for the brittle old bone of the Ras's skull, and with the stone he
tapped him carefully, almost tenderly, above the ear, on the polished
black bald curve of the Ras's pate.
As the Ras dropped, Gareth caught him, one arm under his knees and the
other around the shoulders, as though he was a sleeping child. The
shells were falling heavily about him as Gareth ran back for cover,
carrying the Ras's unconscious form across his chest.
Jake Barton heard the crumping explosion of the shells, and shouted up
at Gregorius, "What are they shooting at now?" Gregorius climbed
higher out of the turret and peered back. The crushed hull of the Hump
would have been unnoticed at that range, just another speck like a
clump of camel-thorn or an amorphous pile of black rock.
Indeed, both men had looked at it fifty times in the last few minutes
without recognizing it, but the shell bursts, which began to leap about
it in fleeting graceful ostrich feathers of dust and smoke, drew
Gregorius's eye immediately.
"My grandfather!" he cried . anxiously. "They have been hit, Jake."
Jake swung the car and halted it, clambering out of the hatch, blowing
dust from the lens of his binoculars and then focusing them. The
picture of the destroyed car leaped into close-up and he recognized
instantly the two distant figures, one in tailored tweeds, the other in
flowing robes and swirling skirts; the two of them were locked together
breast to breast and for an unbelieving moment
Jake thought they were doing a Strauss waltz in the midst of an
artillery barrage. Then he saw Gareth lift the Ras off the ground and
stagger with him to the shelter of the overturned car.
"We must rescue them, Jake," Gregorius exclaimed passionately.
"They will be killed out there, if we do not." Perhaps it was the
telepathic transfer of Gareth Swales's suspicions, but Jake experienced
the sudden guilty prick of temptation. At that moment he knew he
loved
Vicky Camberwell, and there was an easy way to clear the field.
"Jake!" Gregorius called again, and suddenly Jake felt himself so
sickened by his own treacherous thoughts that there was a hollow
nauseous feeling in the centre of his gut, and he felt the swift flow
of saliva from under his tongue.
"Let's go," he said, and dropped down into the driver's hatch. He
swung Priscilla the Pig in a tight skidding turn and ran straight for
the forest of shell-bursts.
They drew no fire, the Italians were concentrating on the stationary
target and they seemed to be making better practice as they figured the
range. It was a matter of seconds before the Hump took a direct hit,
and Jake pressed the throttle flat to the floorboards, but Priscilla
the Pig chose this moment to show her true nature. He felt her baulk,
and the note of her engine changed momentarily, missing and stuttering,
power falling off then suddenly she picked up again and roared onwards
