All faces were turned toward the sky. It was the army boys' first glimpse of a battle in the air and the grim game held them spellbound.
Like great birds the battle planes wheeled and swooped, now diving, now climbing, each jockeying so as to get the weather gauge of its opponent and bring its machine guns into action.
The forces were nearly equal and for some time victory hovered in the balance. But either the staying quality or the alertness of the Allies finally turned the scale. Two of the enemy planes were shot down, and a third, evidently crippled, but not wholly out of control, sought the ground within its own lines.
The German force, now depleted, turned east and made off at full speed, with the Allies in hot pursuit.
Then the sky clouded over and the finish of the fight was lost to the eager watchers below. But they had seen enough to know that the raiders had been beaten back and that victory rested with the Allies and they were jubilant at the result.
"The Huns went back quicker than they came," gloated Tom.
"Right-o!" cried Bart, gleefully. "They came to shear and they went back shorn."
"The Kaiser, he has lost his sheepAnd doesn't know where to find them,Leave them alone and they'll come homeWith our planes close behind them."
So parodied Billy.
"I hope Dick comes out of it all right," said Frank, a little soberly.
"Trust that boy," said Tom, confidently. "I don't imagine anyone needs to worry about him. If he can't take care of himself, nobody can."
But the Germans, though beaten in that skirmish, were far from being discouraged, and the boys were to learn that very night with what a persistent foe they had to deal.
It had been a hard and exciting day and now, after a steaming hot supper, they were scattered about the old mill in comfort and utter relaxation.
Some were smoking, others chatting, some mending their clothes, which in these days of strenuous work were often in need of repair, while one or two by the light of candles were writing letters to the folks at home.
Billy, seated on a stool, was strumming a banjo which had been his solace many a time while he was stationed on the Mexican border and which now was doing duty in France.
"Hit 'er up, Billy," said Bart, lazily. "We don't mind being miserable if it gives you any comfort."
"Quit your knocking," grinned Billy. "You know you're just dying to hear it. What do you fellows want—the Moonlight Sonata or something else simple like that?"
"That's too high class for this bunch," said Tom. "Though there's plenty of moonlight outside," he added, as he looked out the window.
"I've had all the outside I want for one day," said Frank. "I'd just as soon stay where I am." He was penning a letter to his mother, telling her of many things that had happened, and stating that, so far, he had not had a chance to learn anything about his grandfather's estate.
"Well, I'm waiting," said Billy. "What does the gang want? Jazz band music? That's about your style."
"No, give us something that sounds like home," said Tom. "Some of those southern melodies."
"Yes," urged Bart. "You're a dabster at that, Billy."
"All right," said Billy, cheerfully. "Anything to oblige."
He picked the strings for a moment and then began to sing softly—
"Swing low, sweet chariotGwine for to ca'y me homeSwing low, sweet chario—otGwine for to ca'y me home."
Bang!There was a tremendous explosion close to the mill. The air was filled with a deafening din.
The boys jumped to their feet.
"That hit mighty close!" cried Frank.
"What do you suppose it was?" came from Tom. "A shell?"
"We're too far away from the German lines for that," replied Bart.
"More likely it's a bomb from an airship," said Frank. "Let's take a squint outside and see."
They rushed out and their first glance was toward the sky. But there was nothing visible there, nor could they hear the whirring of motors that was the invariable accompaniment of air raids.
But when they searched around the mill they were more successful, for the bright moonlight revealed a freshly dug hole in the ground that formed a veritable crater.
"It was a bomb all right," pronounced Frank. "And from the size of the hole it made it was a lallapalooza. It's lucky it didn't hit the mill."
"I guess some Hun aviator was flying back to his own lines and dropped this as a sort of visiting card," said Billy. "Oh, well, what's a little bit of bomb between friends? Come on back, fellows."
"Yes, come along in and listen to Caruso," chaffed Tom.
Once inside, Billy again picked up his banjo and began to croon.
"It rained all night the day I leftThe next day it was dry.The sun so hot I froze to defSuzanna, don't you cry."
One after another took up the rollicking chorus—
"Oh, Suzanna,Don't you cry for me,Fur I'se gwine to AlabamaWif de banjo on my knee."
Bang! Bang! Bang!came three quick explosions, blending in a tremendous roar.
At the same instant a hole appeared in the roof. Part of it caved in and came clattering down while a blinding glare filled the room!
The strumming ceased and the banjo fell to the floor. For a moment confusion reigned supreme.
The shock and the glare had a paralyzing effect but it lasted only for an instant. Then the army boys pulled themselves together.
"Is anyone hurt?" shouted Frank, as he looked about him.
A groan came from a distant corner. They rushed in that direction.
Fred Anderson was trying to struggle to his feet and in an instant willing arms supported him. His face was pale, blood was flowing from a gash in his forehead and his right leg crumpled up beneath him as he tried to bear his weight upon it.
"I guess the old pin's gone back on me, boys," he said with a faint attempt to smile. "I don't seem to have any feeling in it. I guess the Huns got me that time."
A quick examination showed that the leg was broken just below the knee.
They quickly improvised a temporary splint and a field ambulance was called. The gash in the head proved to be only a flesh wound of no great importance. But it bled freely and gave the impression that Fred was dangerously, perhaps mortally wounded.
It was the first time that these young novices in the art of war had seen blood flowing from American veins from a wound inflicted by a German, and it brought home to them that they were really in the war and might at any instant, like their luckless comrade, come to hand grips with death.
"That sure was a close call," remarked Frank, after Fred, having been made as comfortable as possible, had been carried off by the ambulance to the field hospital. "It might have blown us all to bits."
"That roof may be all right to keep out rain," said Billy, "but it wasn't built for bombs."
"It must have been a glancing blow," commented Tom. "If it had come plump through our name would have been Dennis. It must have spent most of its force on the ridge pole and slid off to the ground."
"Very considerate of it," said Bart, dryly.
"There may be more where that came from," suggested Billy. "There may be a whole squadron of Hun flyers up there in the sky."
"I guess it will be healthier to stay outside for a while," said Tom. "We can see the bombs coming and dodge them. It will be a new kind of outdoor sport."
"It's a new game all right," Bart flung over his shoulder as they made their way outside. "And a game where the stakes are high. You pay dearly if you lose."
They all reached the open, where they found that the entire camp had been aroused by the nocturnal raid. They quickly learned from their excited comrades that other billets had been targets for the marauders and that several soldiers had been severely injured, while one was killed.
Searchlights were sweeping the sky in the attempt to locate the hostile planes. Anti-aircraft guns were popping, and the French escadrille had already mounted to give battle.
"There comes one!" shouted Frank, as his keen eyes caught sight of a tiny blaze coming through the air. "That's the fuse of a bomb."
"And it's coming right toward us!" yelled Bart. "Run fellows—quick!"
They needed no second injunction and it was well they moved quickly, for a moment later, the messenger of death came down close to the spot where they had been standing and exploded with a tremendous roar.
But they had thrown themselves flat on their faces, behind whatever shelter they could find and the rain of iron missiles zipped over and all around them without inflicting much damage.
"I went down in a mud puddle that time," growled Bart, as he rose dripping.
"I notice you stayed there, though," grinned Tom.
"Any port in a storm," laughed Billy. "There's no time to pick and choose when those ticklers are coming down. It's a case of 'the quick or the dead'."
"I was quick all right," grumbled Tom, as he rubbed his knee, "and I'd almost rather be dead than do it again. See that stone? It got me!"
For some minutes more occasional bombs dropped down over a wide area, especial attention being devoted to the field hospital in accordance with the usual brutal German tactics.
But there were no more casualties, and after awhile the bombardment ceased.
"Guess they're all out of ammunition," conjectured Frank, when at last quiet reigned.
"Either that or our aviators have driven them off as they did this afternoon," returned Bart.
"Let's go back to the mill," Tom suggested. "There'll be plenty of ventilation in the old crib to-night."
"And my cot's right beneath that hole in the roof," grumbled Bart.
"Safest place in the whole shebang," comforted Frank. "Lightning never strikes twice in the same spot."
"Yes, but suppose it rains," grouched Bart.
"Aw, it's good for the complexion," grinned Tom. "Anyway, you're soaked through now, aren't you? Some fellows are never satisfied."
"Ah, stop fighting!" said Frank. "It couldn't rain if it wanted to with a moon like that."
Once back in the mill, the army boys set about repairing the havoc wrought by the bomb.
Billy picked up the banjo, patted it lovingly and was relieved to find that his favorite instrument had come through the German attack uninjured.
"Glad you're all right, old girl," he said, running his fingers over the strings. "But I guess you're through for one night."
"Yes," chuckled Tom, as he started to unlace his shoes. "The Huns have given us their idea of a moonlight serenade!"
It might have been expected that a sleepless night would have followed the raid. But the young Americans were far too healthy and their nerves were already becoming too well steeled to let the Germans, like Macbeth, "murder sleep." Their eyes closed almost as soon as their heads touched the pillows, not to open again until reveille sounded the next morning.
They were a little more subdued than usual, however, as they dressed, for there was poor Fred's empty cot and some dark red blotches on the floor to remind them of their comrade's plight and their own narrow escape.
"I wonder how Fred's getting along," said Tom, voicing the general thought.
"All right, I hope," returned Frank. "It will make him sore to be cooped up now with a broken leg, just when the boys are putting the finishing touches on their training."
They were relieved to find on inquiry after breakfast, that Fred was doing finely, that the wound in his head was negligible and that the break in his leg was a simple fracture so that in six weeks he would probably be as well as ever.
"The old scout will have one satisfaction, anyway," said Bart. "He's the first one in our bunch who has actually shed his blood for Uncle Sam."
"Gee, he beat us to it," agreed Tom. "But don't worry, we'll have plenty of chances later on."
In the interval before drill, they strolled about the old mill, seeking traces of the visitation of the night before. These were easily visible for there were immense shell holes where the bombs had buried themselves in the earth.
They found one of the missiles that had not exploded. Bart was about to pick it up when Frank shouted a warning.
"Nix on that funny business!" he cried. "You never can tell when those fellows will start working."
"Yes," added Bart. "Those fingers of yours will come in handy later on. You'll need them in your business."
"Yes," remarked their corporal, Wilson, who sauntered up to them at the moment. "For all we know that thing may have been fixed so that it wouldn't explode when it struck the ground but would the minute somebody picked it up and commenced fooling with it. The only safe way is to give them all a wide berth.
The corporal was popular with the men directly under him, and although he was a strict disciplinarian and kept the men up to their work, there was nothing petty or tyrannical about him. And the respect the men had for him was heightened by the stories that were told in the regiment of the adventures he had undergone.
For he had been a rover over the earth, and in his short life of thirty years had passed through more exciting scenes than fall to the lot of most men in a lifetime. He had been a miner in Australia, had ridden the ranges in Arizona, "mushed" in the Klondike, and been at one time a member of the famous Canadian Mounted Police. He was quiet and reserved, never boasting of his exploits and extremely efficient in anything he set about to do. He was a dead shot and could shoot from the hip with either hand. A coin tossed into the air at a distance of fifty feet he could clip four times out of five.
On one occasion the boys had been astonished eye witnesses of his shooting. The nine of clubs had been pinned to a tree sixty paces distant and Wilson, pulling the trigger so quickly that the eye could scarcely follow, had wiped out the spots in nine successive shots.
He was as courageous as he was skilful, and in case of trouble could be counted on as one of the most valuable members of the regiment.
So that when he showed a disposition to depart from his usual reserve and take part in the conversation the boys made room for him with alacrity.
"Fritz is full of cunning little tricks," the corporal continued. "They played the fountain pen game and got a lot of our fellows before the Allies got wise to it."
"That's a new one on me," said Frank. "What is the fountain pen game?"
"Why," answered Corporal Wilson, as he seated himself comfortably on a nearby rock and struck a match for his pipe, "the Heinies in the first line trenches when our boys went over the top and drove them out used to leave behind them a lot of their stuff because they usually skipped in a hurry.
"One of our boys would find a fountain pen among other things and think he had a prize, but the first time he started to unscrew the cap the thing would explode and smash his hand to bits. We've got a good many cripples in the ranks on account of that. But the game's played out now, and they'll have to think up a new one."
"We ought to get even with them for that," said Tom.
"Oh, we've got even all right," grinned the corporal. "We worked them on the hand grenades. You know how it is sometimes, when the first line trenches are facing each other. A Frenchman or a Britisher throws over a hand grenade, the Hun catches it on the wing, as it were, if its a long time fuse and throws it back in the hope that it will explode in the Allied trenches and thus become a boomerang."
"Rather a risky game I call it," said Billy. "It wouldn't be any fun to have one of those gentle little things go off in your hand."
"That's where the trick comes in," said the Corporal. "You know of course, there are two kinds of fuses. The short time fuse has red threads in it, the long time fuse hasn't. If the German sees that there are none of these red threads in the fuse of the grenade that drops near him he figures he's got time to throw it back.
"Well, one of the British Tommies had a bright idea and he carefully picked all the red threads out of a short time fuse. Then he zipped it over. Of course the Heinie picked it up, thinking it was a long timer and that was about all for Heinie. It blew him and all the men near him to German headquarters."
"To German headquarters," said Bart, wonderingly. "I don't get you."
The corporal grinned.
"Haven't you heard that?" he said. "A British Tommy wrote home that he'd had pretty good luck through the war for he'd sent a dozen Germans to Hades. The British censor scratched out the word, 'Hades' and wrote above it, 'It is not permitted to refer to German headquarters'."
The boys laughed.
"And yet they say the British haven't a sense of humor," commented Frank.
"That's why I say," summed up the corporal, "that you've got to be mighty careful in handling all these contraptions. A fool and his fingers are soon parted."
"Does he mean me?" asked Bart with a grin.
"You've said something," agreed Billy, with unflattering frankness.
The corporal strolled on.
"Fine fellow, that Wilson," remarked Frank.
"He's all of that," agreed Billy, who having been with him when the regiment was on the Mexican border knew him better than his companions did. "That fellow could lick his weight in wildcats. There isn't anything he's afraid to tackle. I heard a story about him once that you fellows wouldn't believe if I told you."
"Let's hear it," said Bart.
"Shoot," chimed in Tom. "We'll see about believing it after we've heard what it is."
"It happened down in Nicaragua," went on Billy. "Caribtown, I think it was, or some place near there. There was some little dinky revolution going on and Wilson it seems had gone down there on some filibustering expedition. He drank pretty freely in those days though he doesn't touch a drop now.
"It seems he was in one of the town resorts when he heard talk about a boa constrictor that had recently been captured and confined in a big cage. The snakes down there don't measure more than ten or twelve feet, but they can easily crush a man if they get their coils around him.
"Wilson just then had got into a condition where he was ready to fight a regiment, and he sneered at their fear of the snake. They egged him on until he boasted that he would be willing to meet the snake in a close room with nothing but a knife. The riffraff there called his bluff and it was arranged that the fight should take place the next morning."
"Some contract!" ejaculated Tom.
"Is this straight goods, Billy, or are you getting us on a string?" asked Bart suspiciously.
"On the dead level," answered Billy. "I had it from a fellow who was down there at the time and knew all about it."
"Stop chinning, you fellows, and let Billy get on with his story," commanded Frank. "He's just getting to the creepy part now and I want to know how the thing turned out."
"Well," continued Billy, "when Wilson woke up the next morning he realized what he was up against. But he was as game as a pebble, and though he knew the odds were against him he wouldn't back out.
"The snake, that had been teased and irritated until it was bursting with rage, was dumped from its cage into a back room of the resort. Then Wilson, armed only with a long knife that they had lent him, went in and shut the door behind him, while the natives crowded around the windows to see the fight.
"The instant the snake saw Wilson he reared up almost to the ceiling and flung himself at the man's throat. Wilson dodged and the fangs caught him in the shoulder. Wilson slashed savagely at the coils that were trying to coil themselves around his body and they staggered around the room. But the knife failed to reach a vital spot and finally one of the folds got around Wilson's legs and he fell to the floor, still stabbing savagely. The snake had won the first round, and it promised to be the last."
There was a gasp from Billy's listeners but their interest was too tense to permit of any interruption.
"Just then," continued Billy, "something happened. One of the natives who had a little more humanity than the rest of the crowd had sculled off to an American gunboat that was lying in the harbor, and told of the scrap that was going to be pulled off. The captain sent over a squad of marines with a rush and they got there just in time to break in the door and hack the snake to pieces with their cutlasses. Another minute and it would have been all over. As it was, Wilson was unconscious, and it was some weeks before he came around ship-shape."
"What a daring thing that was to do!" ejaculated Frank.
"He certainly was there with the nerve!" exclaimed Bart.
"I'll bet he hasn't had any use for snakes since then," added Tom.
"In one way it was a good thing," said Billy, "for it made Wilson swear off from drinking and he's never touched liquor since. You see how he is now, as steady as a church."
"Well," commented Bart, "he'll have all the fighting he wants from now on."
"Yes," agreed Frank with a laugh, "with snakes that wear helmets."
"Look who's here, boys!" exclaimed Tom suddenly, as they saw four soldiers approaching with a prisoner under guard.
"Why, it's Nick Rabig!" they exclaimed in unison as they recognized the burly figure that slouched sullenly along between the quartette guarding him.
"What has he been up to, now, I wonder?" questioned Billy curiously as they sauntered forward to intercept the party.
Rabig favored them with a scowl that had rarely been absent from his face since he had been caught in the draft.
"What's the trouble?" asked Frank of the leader of the file, whom he happened to know.
"Insubordination," was the terse response. "Refused to salute an officer."
"Putting him in the jug on general principles," volunteered another, who was more communicative. "He's been shirking ever since he got here."
"A bad egg," added the third. "It's lucky there aren't many of his type among the boys. The Huns would have an easy job if they were all like him."
They passed on to the building that served as a guardhouse, and which, be it said to the credit of the boys in France, had very few inmates. For the discipline of the camp was strict and the spirit of the men was good. They felt that they stood to the French for what America was and they tried to live up to the high standards laid down for them by generations of American ancestors.
"I think that's the best place for Nick," commented Tom as the doors closed behind the prisoner. "He's a surly brute and he might affect others. One rotten apple in a barrel can spoil the whole barrelful."
"He's no good," said Bart. "Remember how he used to talk on the other side? I'll bet at this minute he'd rather be wearing a Prussian helmet than an American uniform."
"Sure thing," said Billy. "'Die Wacht am Rhine' is the only music he cares to hear."
At this moment Corporal Wilson returned with a paper in his hand upon which he had been noting down the assignments of the day.
"Two of you fellows are in for guard duty," he said, consulting his list. "You, Sheldon, and Raymond will serve till after mess."
He passed on and Bart made a wry face when his back was turned.
"Sweet job!" he muttered.
"Orders are orders," replied Frank, as they shouldered their guns and marched down to the guardhouse.
They began to pace back and forth, exchanging a word now and then at the point where their beats adjoined.
Nick Rabig was lounging at the barred window in an evil temper. If anything could have added to his anger it was the fact that the two young soldiers he most detested had been chosen to stand guard over him and witness his humiliation.
Frank's generous nature sensed the prisoner's feeling, and he studiously avoided catching his glance or taking any notice of him.
But Rabig, incapable of appreciating Frank's motive, chose to interpret this as studied contempt, and his rage flamed forth in a coarse epithet that Frank only half caught but that brought him up all standing.
"What's that you said?" he demanded quickly.
"None of your business!" snarled Rabig, but before the glint in Frank's eyes he did not venture to repeat the insult.
"Now look here, Rabig," said Frank, sternly. "Cut out that sort of stuff. I heard what you said and if you were outside here and weren't in uniform I'd thrash you within an inch of your life."
"Talk is cheap," sneered Rabig. "Why didn't you do it when you were on the other side? You had chance enough."
"I had my reasons," replied Frank, "but they're reasons that a fellow like you couldn't appreciate. As it was, you came within an inch of getting what was coming to you. Some day you will get it, Rabig, and when I cut loose you'll know there's something doing!"
Just then the officer of the day approached. Rabig slunk away from the window while Frank resumed his pacing, and the episode ended then and there.
At the end of three days Rabig's term expired and he was sent back again to his place in the ranks, somewhat subdued in manner though really unchastened in spirit.
His hatred of Frank was unabated and in fact seemed to have taken on extra bitterness since the sharp exchange at the guard-house. He seldom passed Frank without a sneer on his lip or an ugly gleam in his eye, which betrayed the smoldering fires within.
Frank, on his part, bore no rancor. His nature was too open and healthy to nurse a grudge, and although he avoided speaking to Rabig, he seldom thought of him except when the exigencies of military duty threw them together.
"You're as popular as the smallpox with that gink," said Billy one day, after Rabig had passed them with his usual malignant stare at Frank.
"You want to keep your eyes open, Frank," added Tom, who, knowing Rabig better than Billy, distrusted him profoundly. "He's got something up his sleeve."
"I don't think it would be safe to be alongside him in the trenches," put in Bart. "Especially on a dark night. It's an easy thing there to slip a bullet into a man you don't like, and charge it up against the Germans."
"Oh, shucks!" laughed Frank, "Rabig's pretty bad but he isn't as bad as that."
Several weeks went by, weeks of strain and hard work that were rapidly converting the new army into a first-class fighting machine.
But "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," and the officers saw to it that there was plenty of entertainment for the men when the hard day's work was over.
There were improvised vaudeville entertainments and, as there were many actors in the ranks, including some whose names were famous, the performances were really good.
Then too, there were boxing matches, which were perhaps the most popular of all. The boys themselves took part in these and there was a good deal of rivalry, all of it good-natured, among the representatives of the various companies and regiments in camp.
The Government had been quick to recognize the value of boxing, not only as a physical exercise, but because it aided vastly in the bayonet drill.
The two contests closely resembled each other and excellence in one meant excellence in both. There was the same sparring for advantage, feinting, alternate advance and retreat, evading and covering up, attacking and defending.
And because of this, every camp had its official boxing instructor and the sport formed part of the regular drill.
Great care was taken to avoid any brutal element. The rounds were limited to two minutes each and the men were cautioned against letting go with all their weight.
It was a matter of points secured by skill, and it was closely akin to a fencing bout with buttons on the foils to avoid any serious injury.
Frank had always had a fondness for the sport even before he joined the army. He and Bart had often put on the gloves in a friendly bout at the Camport gymnasium. He was as quick as a cat on his feet, a good judge of distance, and unerring in picking out the weak points of his opponent's offense.
Under the skillful training that he received from McGrath, who was a well-known amateur boxer and had been put in charge of the athletic sports of the camp where the boys were stationed, he had made surprising progress and was admitted to be easily the best soldier with the gloves in his own special battalion.
One night a boxing programme had been staged for Frank's regiment and a series of interesting bouts was looked for.
"Are you going on to-night, Frank?" asked Bart.
"Yes," Frank replied. "And I feel in dandy shape. I never felt more full of pep than I do just now."
"Who's McGrath going to put against you?" asked Tom.
"I'm slated to meet Thompson, of company F," replied Frank.
"And he's a crackajack, too," put in Billy. "He cleaned up the champs of all the other companies when the old Thirty-seventh was down on the Mexican border. You've got your work cut out for you, Frank."
And Billy's prediction was verified, for on that night Frank found that Thompson was an opponent to be reckoned with. It was a slashing, four-round bout with the scales hanging even most of the time, but in the closing round Frank had a shade the better of it and was announced the victor.
Amid tumultuous handclapping of company B, whose champion he was, Frank waved his hand smilingly and was about to go off the platform when Corporal Wilson, who was acting as master of ceremonies, stopped him with a gesture.
"Pretty well winded, Sheldon?" he asked.
"Not a bit," laughed Frank. "I'm as fresh as a daisy. Like John Paul Jones, I've just begun to fight."
"That's good," smiled Wilson, "because I'm short a match. One of the pair who were to come on after you and Thompson is rather under the weather and the doctor won't let him take part, though he's game as a fighting cock and wants to go on anyway. If you felt in shape for it I thought perhaps you might help out by taking on some other fellow for a few minutes so that the boys won't be disappointed."
"Sure thing," said Frank. "Bring him along."
"I haven't got anyone picked out, just this minute," said the corporal a little perplexedly.
"Send out a call for volunteers," Frank suggested. "It will make it all the more interesting."
"That's the idea," said the corporal. "Any of you fellows want to put on the gloves with Sheldon?" he called out.
There was a momentary hush and then a figure rose from the throng and Nick Rabig pushed his way through to the platform.
Frank gave a start of surprise as he saw who his opponent was to be, and Bart, who was acting as Frank's second, leaned over him with a word of warning.
"Keep your eye peeled, Frank," he advised. "You know what Rabig is and the way he feels toward you. This is just a scheme of his to get even. He isn't coming up here for a friendly bout. He wants to show you up and knock you out if he can."
"Oh, I don't know," said Frank, unconcernedly. "But if he tries on anything like that I'll give him all he's looking for."
Rabig's second, Werner, one of the few friends he had in the regiment and who like himself was suspected of pro-German leanings, or at least lukewarmness in the service, took a long time in putting on his principal's gloves, and Bart, who was watching him with the eye of a hawk, stepped across the platform to witness the operation.
"Let me look at those gloves," he demanded.
"What's the matter with them?" growled Werner.
"This is the matter with them," said Bart, as he pointed to the part just above where the knuckles came and where the stuffing of the glove had been kneaded aside so that a blow given would be almost like one with the bare fist.
"None of that skin-tight business here," said Bart.
He pounded the glove until it was normal and then handed it back, not going to his own corner, however, until they had been fastened on Rabig's hands to his own satisfaction.
"That cur can't play fair in anything," he remarked to Frank as he came back.
The bell rang and the men came from their corners toward the center of the platform.
Frank extended his hand in the customary greeting but Rabig refused to take it. There was a stir in the audience.
"Looks like a grudge fight," remarked one, with quickened interest.
"It does on Rabig's part," assented his neighbor. "But if it comes to that I'm betting on Sheldon to trim him."
The boxers sparred for a moment, Frank cool and smiling, Rabig surly and furious. Then Frank found an opening and landed a deft uppercut that shook Rabig from head to foot.
He rushed at Frank like a mad bull but Frank cleverly side-stepped and countered with a left to the ear. Of the two Rabig was the heavier and in Camport had won a reputation as a rough and tumble fighter.
Stung by Frank's cleverly planted blows, he threw what little science he had to the winds and the next minute the two were at it, hammer and tongs.
"I'll do you!" Rabig panted, as he slugged right and left, vainly endeavoring to get through Frank's guard.
"Go as far as you like," retorted the latter, emphasizing the retort with a left jab that nearly lifted Rabig off his feet.
The bell that announced the end of the round found Rabig winded by his furious endeavors. But Frank, though breathing a little heavily, was serene and confident, as he returned to his corner.
"I told you he was in dead earnest," said Bart, as his principal sat down on his stool for a minute's rest. "Look out for fouls, Frank. He'll do anything to down you."
In the round that followed, Bart's warning was amply justified. Rabig in one of the clinches, as he leaned on Frank's shoulder, tried to bite and he butted continually.
"Cut that out, Rabig," warned Frank in a low tone, after the latter had twice used his head as a battering ram. "My patience won't last forever."
"I'll get you yet!" gasped Rabig.
Once more he drove his head at Frank's chin and the latter, now thoroughly aroused by the foul tactics, let fly his right and caught his burly adversary fairly on the point of the jaw.
Down went Rabig like a shot. Frank generously reached out his hand to help him to his feet, but Rabig struck it away and just here Corporal Wilson intervened.
"That'll do," he commanded. "We don't want any knockout. Sheldon wins."
Frank with a smile and wave of the hand stripped off his gloves and left the platform, to be pounded and mauled in exultation by his admiring comrades.
Meanwhile, Rabig slunk away followed by hisses and jeers at the foul tactics that after all had only resulted in the beating he so richly deserved.
"You trimmed him good, Frank," cried Tom exultantly.
"You went around him like a cooper around a barrel," jubilated Billy.
"I guess if you owed him anything, you've paid the score," chuckled Bart. "I've been aching for months to see that bully get what was coming to him."
"I didn't want to hurt him," said Frank, good-naturedly. "But when he came butting at me that way and even trying to bite, I simply had to lace him. But even now I haven't a bit of grudge against the fellow."
"He'll sing small after this," prophesied Tom. "But all the same, Frank, keep your weather eye open. He'll do you a mischief if he ever gets the chance."
It was just after the noonday mess the next day, and the boys were chatting in front of the mill, when Frank, looking carelessly down the road, gave a startled exclamation.
"Look what's coming, fellows!" he cried.
They came up all standing and looked in the direction indicated.
"By the great horn spoon!" ejaculated Tom. "Have I got the delirium tremens?"
"It's a nightmare," declared Billy.
Up the dusty road was coming the weirdest creation that the boys had ever seen. It looked like a great hulking rhinoceros. It moved along slowly and ponderously, as though it were straining under a burden too heavy to be borne.
The sun reflected from its sides showed that it was coated with metal. There were openings in the armor through which the muzzles of machine guns protruded. Around its huge wheels there passed what seemed to be a broad endless chain that formed a path on which the wheels traveled. There was no driver to be seen and it came lumbering along like a blind monster feeling its way. But although its progress was leisurely it was sure, and the boys as they watched it gathered an impression of almost irresistible force.
"I've read of the car of Juggernaut," muttered Tom as it came nearer, "and I guess this must be it."
"It's going into the ditch!" exclaimed Bart, as the monster gave a lurch into a deep depression at the side of the road.
"It'll topple over sure!" prophesied Billy.
But the prophecy proved false for the car righted itself from an almost impossible angle and came on as doggedly as before.
Just before it got to where the boys were standing it came to a halt, a door opened and a young fellow of about their own age leaped out.
He was strong and well built, with hair that crisped in curly waves close to his head and a pair of merry blue eyes that spoke of fun and good fellowship.
"Hello, fellows!" he exclaimed, waving the formality of an introduction and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "My, but it's hot in there!"
They crowded round him in eager curiosity.
"Where did you dig up this rig?" asked Billy. "Is it real or is it all a hideous dream?"
The newcomer laughed.
"You don't seem to be stuck on my pet," he grinned. "I'll admit she isn't much on beauty, but when she comes to scrapping she's a holy terror."
"She looks it," agreed Frank. "I'd hate to have her bump up against me when she was in a bad temper."
"That's the way the Huns feel," laughed their new acquaintance. "They haven't any use for tanks. You ought to see the way we got 'em in the battle of the Somme."
"Were you there?" asked Tom.
"Very much there," was the answer. "This old rascal of mine was right in the thick of it."
"You English have all the luck!" exclaimed Bart enviously.
"English nothing," replied the operator. "I'm an American just as you are. My name is Stone, Will Stone, and I was born in Detroit."
"Bully!" exclaimed Frank, and there was a general handshake and introductions all around.
"But how did you get over here before the rest of us?" queried Bart.
"Well," laughed Will, "you know Windsor in Canada is just across the river from Detroit and I slipped across and enlisted with the Canadian troops. I knew a good deal about automobiles—everybody in Detroit does, because there are so many plants there—and when these tanks were ready for use and they called for volunteers I was Johnny-on-the-spot."
"You chose a hot branch of the service, all right," commented Tom. "If you were looking for excitement I guess you got it."
"You're a good guesser," grinned Will. "When you're climbing over trenches and crashing through walls and rooting up trees, with bullets pattering against the sides like hailstones on a roof, the fellow who can't get enough excitement out of it is pretty hard to please. But come along, you fellows, and I'll show you over the old shebang if you care to look at it."
They needed no second invitation, and for the next half hour there was a volley of questions and answers as they examined the offensive and defensive qualities of the grim monster that had carried consternation into the German ranks.
"Well, so long, fellows," said Will, when at last he climbed into the tank and set its unwieldy bulk in motion. "Here's hoping that we meet again soon."
"In Berlin, if not sooner!" Frank shouted after him.
A few days later one of the French colonels visited the camp. After his formal reception by the American officers he made a tour of inspection, going among the men, looking over the barracks and asking innumerable questions.
There was an absence of pomp and ceremony about him that was characteristic of the French officers who, perhaps more than those of any other nation, live on terms of simple comradeship with their men, and the boys, to use Billy's phrase, "cottoned to him" at once.
Unfortunately he knew little English and as the boys knew still less French, conversation was halting and difficult. The officer's delight then, can be imagined when, on addressing a question to Frank, the latter responded in French as pure as his own.
"Why, my boy," said Colonel Pavet, "you speak as though you were a son of France."
"A stepson, perhaps," replied Frank, smilingly. "For my mother is a daughter of France!"