I called back to whoever it was to crawl unless he wanted to be shot, but probably the words were all mixed up in the tunnel echoes, for he came on as before.
Then all at once Goodenough flashed on the light for a fraction of a second and the shirt showed like a phantom out of blackness.
The instant answer to that was a regular volley of shots from in front.

The flash of several pistols lit up the tunnel, and bullets rattled off the walls and roof.

The shirt fell, shot loose from its moorings, and the leading Sikhs gave a shout as they started to rush forward.
We all surged after them, but there was a sudden check, followed by a babel worse than when a dozen pi-dogs fight over a rubbish- heap.

You couldn't make head or tail of it, except that something desperate was happening in front, until suddenly a man with a knife in his hand, too wild with fear to use it, came leaping and scrambling over the backs of Sikhs, like a forward bucking the line.

The Sikh in front of me knelt upright and collared him round the knees.