the impenetrable darkness, they sought the foe. And but for Bruce
they must quickly have found what they sought. Even in compact
form, the Americans could not have had the sheer luck to dodge
every scattered contingent of Huns which starred the German end
of No Man's Land--most of them between the fugitives and the
American lines.

But Bruce was on dispatch duty. It was his work to obey commands
and to get back to camp at once. It was bad enough to be
handicapped by Mahan's grasp on his collar. He was not minded to
suffer further delay by running into any of the clumps of
gesticulating and cabbage-reeking Germans between him and his
goal. So he steered clear of such groups, making several wide
detours in order to do so. Once or twice he stopped short to let
some of the Germans grope past him, not six feet away. Again he
veered sharply to the left--increasing his pace and forcing Mahan
and the rest to increase theirs--to avoid a squad of thirty men
who were quartering the field in close formation, and who all but
jostled the dog as they strode sightlessly by. An occasional
rifle-shot spat forth its challenge. From both trench-lines men
were firing at a venture. A few of the bullets sang nastily close
to the twelve huddled men and their canine leader. Once a German,
not three yards away, screamed aloud and fell sprawling and
kicking, as one such chance bullet found him. Above and behind,
sounded the plop of star-shells sent up by the enemy in futile
hope of penetrating the viscid fog. And everywhere was heard the
shuffle and stumbling of innumerable boots.

At last the noise of feet began to die away, and the uneven
groping tread of the twelve Americans to sound more distinctly