The German, doubtless thinking he had stumbled upon a single
stray American scout, whirled his own rifle aloft, to dash out
the brains of his luckless foe. But before the upflung butt could
descend,--before the rookie could rise or dodge,--the point added
his quota to the rude breaking of the night's silence. He
screamed in panic terror, dropped his brandished gun and reeled
backward, clawing at his own throat.

For out of the eerie darkness, something had launched itself at
him--something silent and terrible, that had flown to the
Missourian's aid. Down with a crash went the German, on his back.
He rolled against the Missourian, who promptly sought to grapple
with him.

But even as he clawed for the German, the rookie's nerves wrung
from him a second yell--this time less of rage than of horror.

"Sufferin' cats!" he bellowed. "Why didn't anybody ever tell me
Germans was covered with fur instead of clothes?"

The boche platoon was no longer striding along in hike-
formation. It was broken up into masses of wildly running men,
all of them bearing down upon the place whence issued this
ungodly racket and turmoil. Stumbling, reeling, blindly falling
and rising again, they came on.

Some one among them loosed a rifle-shot in the general direction
of the yelling. A second and a third German rifleman followed the
example of the first. From the distant American trenches, one or
two snipers began to pepper away toward the enemy lines, though