'A frontal attack,' put in Dave. 'What price our heads if they start
shooting off the gun?'

'They probably won't start until they have light enough to see where
they're shooting,' returned Ken. 'Horan's notion is all right. Come on.'

'But mind you,' he whispered urgently, 'we must keep one bomb for the gun.
You'd best throw yours first, Horan, and as soon as it's gone off, let 'em
have it with your pistol. Then, if there are any of 'em left, you whack
yours in, Dave.'

He crept away, the others followed, and a few moments later they found
themselves crouching close together under the low parapet of the rifle
pit. There was light enough for them to see--just above their heads--the
ugly gray muzzle of the mitrailleuse peeping out through an embrasure in
the earthen bank.

All of a sudden, without the slightest warning, a tongue of flame spat
from the muzzle, and with a deafening rattle a hail of bullets sprayed out
over their heads, directed at the trench a bare two hundreds yards away.

'Quick!' cried Ken. 'We must stop that,' and with all speed he pulled out
his match-box. The crackle of the firing drowned his words, but that did
not matter. The others understood.

Ken struck a match, and Roy held out the fuse of his bomb. Luckily there
was no wind. The fuse caught and instantly began to hiss and splutter.

With reckless disregard for danger, Roy sprang upon the parapet. Ken had