Phipps-Herrick thrusts the receiver into his hand. As he listens
a beatific expression spreads over his face. It lasts a long time,
and then he lays down the cylinder with a sigh.

The three heads are close together, and Mitchell whispers under
his breath:

"Got 'em--got the whole thing--line of mine changed--raiders coming
out now--twelve men--rough on us, but if we can get back to our
alley we've got 'em! Crawl home quick."

[Illustration with caption: "I'm going to carry you in, spite of
hell"]

They crawled together in a bunch, formation ignored. Presently
steps sounded near them. A swift light swept the hole where they
crouched, a volley of rifle-shots crashed into it. The Americans
answered with their pistols, and saw three or four of the dark
forms on the edge of the hole topple over. The rest disappeared.
But Rosenlaube had a rifle-ball through his right hip and another
through his shoulder. Mitchell and Phipps-Herrick started to carry
him.

"Drop it," he whispered. "I'm safe here till dawn--you get home,
quick! Specially Phil. He's the one that counts. Cut away, boys!"

Meantime the American trench had opened fire and the German trench
answered. The still night broke into a tempest of noise. A bullet
or a bit of shell caught Mitchell in the knee and crumpled him up.
Phipps-Herrick lifted him on his back and stood up.