There was great rejoicing among the passengers, and much credit was given the lookout for his promptness in reporting a sight of the submarine. Formal thanks were extended to the gun crews for their efficient work, without which the undersea boat might have accomplished her purpose. Nor were the boiler room and engineer forces forgotten, for it was because of the sudden burst of speed on the part of the Jeanne that she escaped that one torpedo at least.

"Now we'll be all right," Charlie said, as he helped his friends make a few pictures of the approach and the convoying of the destroyers to add to the views they had of the submarine and her defeat—temporary defeat it might prove, but, none the less, a defeat.

"Well, hardly all right," remarked Blake, as the camera was dismounted. "We're still in the danger zone, and the Huns won't let slip any chance to do us harm. But I guess we have more of a chance for our white alley than we had before."

Though the French ship was now protected by the three convoying vessels, the crews of which kept a sharp watch on all sides for the presence of more submarines, there was still plenty of danger, and this was felt by all.

At any moment a submarine, approaching below the surface with only her periscope showing—and this made a mark exceedingly hard to see and hit—might launch a torpedo, not only at the merchant-man but at one of the destroyers.

"It's like sleeping over a case of dynamite," observed Joe, as he and his chums went below. "I'd rather be on the war front. You can at least see and hear shells coming."

"That's right," agreed Blake. "Well, if nothing happens, we'll soon be there now."

"If is a big word these days," observed Charlie.

"Now that we're comparatively safe for the moment, I want to ask you fellows something," said Blake, after a pause.

"Ask ahead," returned Joe. "If you want to know whether I was scared, I'll say I was, but I was too busy getting pictures to notice it. If it is something else——"

"It is," interrupted Blake, and his manner was grave. "Come below and I'll tell you. I don't want any one else to hear."

Wondering somewhat at their friend's manner, Joe and Charlie went to their stateroom, and there Blake closed the door and took the dark cloth down from the mirror. A look into it showed that the transom of the room opposite—the cabin of Levi Labenstein—had been closed.

"So we can't tell whether he's in there or not," said Blake.

"Did you want to talk about him?" asked Joe.

"Yes, him and the lieutenant. Did you fellows happen to notice what they were doing when the submarine was attacking us?"

"Not especially," answered Joe. "I did see Lieutenant Secor looking at us as we worked the camera, but I didn't pay much attention to him."

"It wasn't him so much as it was the German," went on Blake.

"In what way?"

"Did you see where he was standing when the submarine came out of the water?"

Neither Joe nor Charlie had done so, or, if they had, they did not recall the matter when Blake questioned them. So that young man resumed:

"Well, I'll tell you what I saw: Labenstein was leaning over the rail on the side where the submarine showed, and he was holding a big white cloth over the side."

"A big white cloth?" cried Joe.

"That's what it was," went on Blake. "It looked to me like a signal."

"Do you mean a signal of surrender?" asked Charlie. "A white flag? He wouldn't have any right to display that, anyhow. It would have to come from Captain Merceau."

"Maybe he meant that he'd surrender personally," suggested Joe, "and didn't want his fellow-murderers to hurt him."

"I don't know what his object was," went on Blake, "but I saw him take from his pocket a big white cloth and hold it over the side. It could easily have been seen from the submarine, and must have been, for he displayed it just before the underwater boat came up."

"A white cloth," mused Joe. "From his pocket. Was it his handkerchief, Blake?"

"He wouldn't have one as large as that, even if he suffered from hay fever. I think it was a signal."

"A signal for what?" Charlie again asked.

"To tell the submarine some piece of news, of course—perhaps the port of sailing, something of the nature of our cargo, or perhaps to tell just where to send the torpedo. I understand we are carrying some munitions, and it may be that this German spy directed the commander of the submarine where to aim the torpedo so as to explode them."

"But he'd be signaling for his own death warrant!" cried Joe.

"Not necessarily," answered Blake. "He may have had some understanding with the submarine that he was to be saved first. Perhaps he was going to jump overboard before the torpedo was fired and was to be picked up. Anyhow, I saw him draping a white cloth over the side, and I'm sure it was a signal."

"Well, I guess you're right," said Joe. "The next question is, what's to be done? This fellow is a spy and a traitor, and we ought to expose him."

"Yes," agreed Blake. "But we'd better have a little more evidence than just my word. You fellows didn't see what I saw, that's plain, and perhaps no one else did. So it would only make a big fuss and not result in anything if I told the captain."

"Then what are you going to do?" asked Charlie.

"Just keep watch," Blake answered.

"What about Lieutenant Secor?" asked Joe.

"Well, I didn't see him do anything," admitted Blake. "Though I have my suspicions of him also. He and Labenstein weren't talking so earnestly together for nothing. We'll watch that Frenchman, too."

"And if he tries any more games in spoiling films I'll have my say!" threatened Macaroni.

The boys talked the situation over at some length as they put away the films they had taken of the submarine attack, and agreed that "watchful waiting" was the best policy to adopt. As Blake had said, little could be gained by denouncing Labenstein with only the word of one witness to rely on.

"If all three of us catch him at his traitorous work, then we'll denounce him," suggested Blake.

"Yes, and the Frenchman, too!" added Charlie, in a louder voice, so that Blake raised a cautioning hand.

At that moment came a knock on their door, and a voice said:

"I am Mr. Labenstein!"



CHAPTER X

THE FLASHLIGHT

Almost like conspirators themselves, the boys looked at one another as the voice and knock sounded together. Blake was the first to recover himself.

"Come in!" he called, in as welcoming a tone as he could muster under the circumstances. Then as the knob of the door was ineffectually tried, he added:

"Oh, I forgot it was locked! Wait a moment!"

A moment later he had swung the door open, and the man who, the boys believed, was a German spy confronted them, smiling.

"You are locked in as if you feared another submarine," he said. "It is not the best way to do. You should be on deck!"

"But not on deck as you were, with a flag to signal to the Huns," thought Joe; and he wished he dared make the accusation.

Blake motioned to the caller to seat himself on a stool.

"I came to see if I might borrow something," began the caller. "I find that mine is out of order for some reason," and he held out a small, but powerful, electric flash lamp, of the sort sold for the use of soldiers. "Have you, by any chance, one that you could spare me?" asked Mr. Labenstein.

"I do not want it, if it is the only one you have, but they are a great convenience in one's berth, for the lights must be kept turned off, now that we are in the danger zone made by those terrible Germans. Ah, how I hate them!" and his anger seemed very real and earnest.

"Did you say you wanted to borrow a pocket electric flash lamp?" asked Blake, wishing to make the caller repeat his request. As he asked this question Blake looked at his chums, as though to ask them to take particular note of the reply.

"I should like to, yes, if you have one to spare. There are three of you, and, I presume, like most travelers, you each have one. I am alone in a single stateroom, and I may have need of a light. I will return it to you at the end of the voyage, or buy it of you at a good price. You see, I have a little Jew in me. I will make a bargain with you. And I will pay you well, something a Jew proverbially does not like to do. But I realize the value of what I want, and that the market is not well supplied, so you may take advantage of my situation. My battery is either worn out or the light is broken. It will not flash."

He shoved down the little sliding catch, but there was no glow in the tiny tungsten bulb.

"You have me at your mercy if you wish to sell me a lamp," he went on, with a smile and a shrug of his shoulders, not unlike that of Lieutenant Secor.

"Hasn't your friend a spare light?" asked Joe quickly.

"My friend?" repeated the German, as though surprised. "You mean——?"

"I mean Lieutenant Secor."

"Oh, him!" and again came the deprecatory shrug of the shoulders. "He is an acquaintance, not a friend. Besides, he has but one lamp, and he needs that. So, also, will you need yours. But as there are three of you together, I thought perhaps——"

"We each have a light," said Blake, interrupting the rather rapid talk of Labenstein. "In fact, I have two, and I'll let you take one."

"That is very kind of you. Ah, it is like mine!"

The visitor was watching Blake eagerly as he brought forth one of the flat, three-cell nickel-plated holders of tiny batteries, with the white-backed and tungsten-filamented incandescent light set in a depressed socket.

"Yes, this is the best type," Blake said. "You may have this."

"And the price?" asked Labenstein, as his hand quickly went into his pocket.

"Is nothing," answered Blake. "It is a gift."

"Ah, but, my dear sir, that is too much! I could not think of taking it without pay!" insisted Mr. Labenstein, as he flashed on the light and then slipped the switch back in place again. "I protest that I must pay you."

"Please don't insist on paying," begged Blake, "for I shall only have to refuse to take any money. Please consider the light a gift. I have a spare one."

"You are very kind, I'm sure," said the other, bowing with some exaggeration, it seemed to the boys. "I appreciate it, I assure you, and I shall look for a chance to repay the favor."

"That's all right," said Blake, and he tried to make his voice sound hearty. "You are welcome to the light."

"A thousand thanks," murmured Mr. Labenstein, as he bowed himself out.

And then, when the door had closed on him and they had taken the precaution of closing their transom, Joe burst out in a cautious whisper with:

"What in the world did you let him take it for, Blake Stewart? Don't you see what his game is?"

"Yes," was Blake's quiet answer; "I think I do."

"Well, then——"

"What is his game?" asked Charlie.

"I presume he wants to use the flash lamp to give a signal at night to some German submarine," said Blake quietly—very quietly, under the circumstances, it might seem.

"And you let him take a light for that?" cried Joe.

"Wait a bit!" advised Blake, and he smiled at his chum. "Do you know anything about these flashlights, Joe?"

"A little—yes. I know a powerful one, like that you gave Labenstein, can be seen a long way on a dark night."

"Well, then maybe you know something else about them, or you may have forgotten it. Like the proverb which says 'blessings brighten as they vanish,' so the light of these lamps sometimes glows very strong just before the battery goes on the blink and douses the glim."

Joe looked at his chum for a moment, uncomprehendingly, and then a smile came over his face.

"Do you mean you gave him a light with a battery in it that was almost played out?" he asked.

"Exactly," answered Blake, with another smile. "This is a light I have had for some time. I noticed, only last night, that it was brighter than usual. Just as a fountain pen—at least, the old-fashioned kind—used to flow more freely when there were only a few drops of ink left, so this battery seems to be strongest just before it gives out altogether.

"I suspected this was going to happen, but I tested the battery with a galvanometer to-day and I found out it has about ten flashes left. After that the light will be dead."

"Is that why you gave it to him?" asked Charlie.

"The very reason. As soon as he asked for a light it occurred to me that he wanted to use it—or might use it—to give a signal at night to some watching submarine commander waiting for a chance to torpedo us. I thought if I let him do it with this failing light he might do the Huns more damage than he could us."

"How?" asked Joe.

"By not being able to give the proper signals. He'll need to flash a light for some little time to make sure to attract the attention of the submarine, won't he?"

"Probably," agreed Joe.

"Well, then, if, while he's in the midst of signaling, his light goes out, the submarine won't know what to make of it, and will come up closer to find out what's wrong. Then our own guns, or those of the destroyers, can bang away and catch the Germans napping."

"Say, that's great!" cried Charlie, as soon as he understood the plan Blake had so quickly evolved.

"If it works," conceded Joe. "But how are we going to know when that German spy signals the submarine and fails to convey his full meaning, Blake?"

"We'll have to watch him, of course. Catch him in the act, as it were. The defective lamp will help."

"So it will!" exclaimed Joe. "Blake, I take back all I thought of you. I imagined you were making a mistake to let that lamp go out of your possession; but now I see your game. It's a good one! But we've got to be on the watch for this spy!"

"Oh, yes," agreed his chum. "And not only him but the Frenchman as well. I didn't believe it possible that Secor could be in with this German, but perhaps he is, and maybe he'll betray his own countrymen. Either one may give the signal, but if they do we'll be ready for them. No more moving pictures for us, boys, until we get to the war front. We've got to be on this other job!"

"But hadn't we better tell Captain Merceau?" asked Charlie.

"Yes, I think so," assented Blake. "We'll tell him what we think, and what we have done."

But they did not get a chance that day, for there was a submarine scare toward evening—a lookout thinking he saw a periscope—and the consequent confusion made it impossible to have a talk with the commander. The boys did not want to report to any subordinate officer, and so concluded to wait until the next day.

"But we'll keep watch to-night on our friend across the corridor," Blake said. "And on Lieutenant Secor as well. His stateroom is next to Labenstein's, and we can tell when either of them goes out after dark—that is, if we keep watch."

"And we'll keep it, all right!" declared Joe "Now that we know something about what to look out for, we'll do it!"

And so, as evening came on and the lights of the ship were darkened and as she sped along in company with her convoy, the three boys prepared to divide the night into watches, that they might be on guard against what they regarded as an attempt at black treachery.

For somewhere under or on that waste of waters they believed a deadly submarine was lurking, awaiting the favorable moment to send a torpedo at the ship.



CHAPTER XI

THE DEPTH CHARGE

Charlie Anderson, who had taken the earliest watch, roused Blake at the appointed time, and reported:

"All quiet so far."

"Then you haven't seen anything of our friends across the hall?"

"Not a thing. Just as we arranged, I've had my eye at the hole, but their doors have both been closed. Maybe you'll have better luck."

"I don't think it will be good luck at all to see one of them sneak out to flash a signal to a waiting submarine, or one that may be following us all the while, waiting for a chance to strike. But I will call it exceedingly good luck if we can stop it," said Blake.

"Go to it, old top!" exclaimed Macaroni, dropping into what he thought the latest English slang. "I'm going to turn in."

The lanky helper of the moving picture boys had spent the hours of his watch with his eye close to a small hole that had been bored in the door of the boys' stateroom. The hole gave a view of the staterooms of Lieutenant Secor and Mr. Labenstein, which adjoined. And, as Charles had said, he had not observed either man leave his apartment.

If what the boys had only guessed at were true—that one or both of the men contemplated giving a signal to the enemy by means of the flashlight—the time for it had not yet come.

"Well, I'll try my hand," Blake said. "You turn in, Mac, and if I need any help I'll call you. If I don't see anything up to about one o'clock I'll let Joe do his trick. Good-night and pleasant dreams."

Charlie did not answer. He was already in his bunk and asleep, for he was tired, and the last half hour of his watch he had kept himself awake with difficulty.

Then Blake began his turn of duty. He took a position at the door where he could look out through the hole into the dimly lighted corridor. He had a view of the doors of the staterooms of the two men who were under suspicion, and as soon as either or both of them came out he intended to follow and see what was done.

For an hour nothing happened, and Blake was beginning to feel a bit sleepy, in spite of the fact that he had rested during the early part of the evening, when he was startled by a slight sound. It was like the creaking of a rusty hinge, and at first he thought it but one of the many sounds always more or less audible on a moving ship.

Then, as he tuned his ears more acutely, he knew that it was the squeaking of a hinge he had heard, and he felt sure it meant the opening of a door near by.

Through the hole he looked at the door behind which was Levi Labenstein, whether sleeping or preparing for some act which would put the ship in peril and endanger the lives of all the passengers, could only be guessed.

Then, as Blake watched, he saw the door open and the German come out. Labenstein looked around with furtive glances, and they rested for some little time on the door behind which Blake was watching. Then, as if satisfied that all was quiet, the man stole silently along, the corridor.

"Something doing," thought Blake. "Something doing, all right. He has something in his hand—probably my flashlight. Much good may it do him!"

As Labenstein passed the stateroom where Lieutenant Secor was quartered, that door opened softly, but not until the German was beyond it. And then Blake saw the Frenchman peer out as though to make sure his fellow-conspirator was fairly on his way. After that the lieutenant himself emerged and softly followed the German.

"Both of 'em at it," mused Blake. "I'd better rouse Joe and let him keep track of one, in case they should separate."

A touch on Joe Duncan's shoulder served to arouse him, though he was in a deep sleep. He sat up, demanding:

"What is it? Are we torpedoed?"

"No, but we may be," was Blake's low answer. "Keep quiet and follow me. Secor and Labenstein have both gone up on deck, I think. We'd better follow."

"Shall we tell Charlie?" asked Joe, as he slid from his berth. Neither he nor his chums had taken off their clothes.

"Yes, I guess we'd better get him up," Blake answered. "If you and I have to watch these two fellows, we may need some one to send for help in case anything happens. Come on, Macaroni," he added, leaning over their helper and whispering in his ear. "Wake up!"

Charles was up in an instant, a bit confused at first, as one often is when emerging from a heavy sleep, but he had his faculties with him almost at once, and was ready for action.

"What is it?" he asked, in a whisper.

In like low tones Blake told him, and then the three boys, after making sure by a cautious observation that neither of the suspected men was in sight, went out into the corridor and to the deck.

It was quite dark, for all unnecessary lights were dimmed, but there was a new moon, and the stars were bright, so that objects were fairly clear. On either side could be dimly observed the black shapes of the convoying destroyers.

"Where are they?" asked Joe, in a whisper. "The traitors!"

"I don't know—we'll have to look," was Blake's answer. They looked along the deck, but saw no one, and were about to turn to the other end of the craft when a figure stepped out from the shadow of a boat and sharply challenged them.

"Who are you—what do you want?" was asked.

It was one of the ship's crew assigned to night-watch. Blake knew him slightly, having, at the man's request one day, showed him something of the workings of a moving picture camera.

"We came up looking for two gentlemen who have the staterooms opposite ours," Blake answered, resolving to "take a chance" in the matter. "Lieutenant Secor and Mr. Labenstein," he added. "Have you seen them?"

"Yes; they came up to get a bit of air, they said," answered the sailor. "I saw them a little while ago. You will find them up near the bow. Do not show a light, whatever you do, and light no matches. If you wish to smoke you must go below."

"Thanks, we don't smoke," Joe answered, with a low laugh. "But we'll be careful about lights."

"All right," answered the sailor. "We have to look out for submarines, you know," he added. "This is the worst part of the danger zone."

The boys moved forward like silent shadows, peering here and there for a sight of the two figures who had come up a little while before them, with evil intentions in their hearts they had no doubt. Even now there might be flashing across the dark sea, from some hidden vantage point on the ship, a light signal that would mean the launching of the deadly torpedo.

"There's no doubt, now, but the Frenchman is a traitor," whispered Joe to Blake. "I have been positive about that German being a spy ever since I've seen him, but I did have some doubts regarding Secor. I haven't any now."

"It does look bad," admitted Blake.

"I wish I'd smashed him with my auto, instead of waiting for him to smash me," remarked Charlie. "He's a snake, that's what he is!"

"Hush!" cautioned Blake. "They may be around here—any place—and hear you. I wish we could see them."

They moved along silently, looking on every side for a sight of the two conspirators, but there were so many shadows, and so many places where the men might lurk, that it was difficult to place them. The sailor, evidently, had had no suspicions, thinking that Blake and his chums had merely come up to be with the two men.

"What are you going to do when you do see them?" asked Joe of his chum.

"I don't know," was the whispered answer. "First, we've got to see them, then we can tell what to do. But where in the world are they?"

Somewhat at a loss what to do, the boys paused in the shadow of a deckhouse. They were about to emerge from its dim protection when Charlie plucked at Blake's sleeve.

"Well?" asked the moving picture boy, in a low voice. "What is it?"

"Look right straight into the bow, as far as you can see," directed Macaroni. "Notice those two moving shadows?"

"Yes," answered Blake.

"I think that's our men," went on Charlie.

"Yes, there they are," added Joe.

It was evident, after a moment's glance, that the two men who had so silently stolen from their rooms were together in the bow of the steamer, or as far up in the bow as they could get. The deck was open at this point, and, leaning over the side, it would be easy to flash a signal on either beam. The lookout on the bridge was probably too much occupied in sweeping the sea ahead and to either side of the ship to direct his attention to the vessel itself.

"Come on," whispered Blake to the other two. "We want to hear what they are saying if we can, and see what they're doing."

Silently the boys stole forward until they could make out the dim figures more clearly. There was no doubt that they were those of Secor and Labenstein. And then, as the boys paused, fearing to get so close as to court discovery, they saw a little light flash.

Three times up and down on the port side of the bows went a little flash of light, and then it suddenly went out.

"My electric light," whispered Blake in Joe's ear.

"But I thought you said it would burn out!"

"I hope it has. I think——"

From one of the figures in the bow came a guttural exclamation:

"The infernal light has gone out!"

"So?" came from the other.

"Yes. It must be broken. Let me have yours, Herr Lieutenant. I have not given the signal in completeness, and——"

"I left my light in the stateroom. I'll go and——"

But the lieutenant never finished that sentence. Across the dark and silent ocean came a dull report—an explosion that seemed to make the Jeanne tremble. And then the sky and the water was lighted by the flashing beams of powerful lights.

"What was that?" gasped Joe, while from the crouching figures in the bow came exclamations of dismay. "Are we torpedoed?"

"I fancy not," answered Blake. "Sounded more like one of the destroyers made a hit herself. I think they set off a depth charge against a submarine. We'll soon know! Look at the lights now!"

The sea was agleam with brilliant radiance.



CHAPTER XII

IN ENGLAND

From the bridge came commands to the lookouts stationed in various parts of the French steamer. Orders flashed to the engine room, and the vessel lost way and floated under her momentum. As yet she was shrouded in darkness, the only lights glowing being those actually required to enable persons to see their way about. Below, of course, as long as the incandescents were shaded, they could be turned on, and many passengers, awakened by the concussion and the following sounds, illuminated their staterooms.

The lights that gleamed across the billows came from the convoying destroyers, and signals flashed from one to the other, though the meaning of them the moving picture boys could only guess at.

Immediately following the explosion, which seemed to come from the side of the Jeanne where Labenstein had flashed his signal, the German and the Frenchman had subsided into silence. Each one had given voice to an exclamation in his own tongue and then had hurried away.

And so occupied were Blake and his chums with what had gone on out there on the ocean—trying to guess what had happened—that they did not notice the departure of the two men.

"What's that you said it was?" asked Joe of his partner. "I mean the explosion."

"I think it was a depth charge," answered Blake. "One of the destroyers must have sighted a submarine and let go a bomb, with a heavy charge of explosive, which didn't go off until after it got to a certain depth below the surface. That's the new way of dealing with submarines, you know."

"I only hope they got this one, with a depth charge or any other way," remarked Charles Anderson. "Look, we're lighting up! I guess the danger must be over."

Lights were flashing on the deck of the Jeanne, and signals came from the destroyers. It was evident that messages were being sent to and fro.

And then, as passengers crowded up from their staterooms, some in a state of panic fearing a torpedo had been launched at the ship, another muffled explosion was heard, and in the glare of the searchlights from one of the convoying ships a column of water could be seen spurting up between the French steamer and the war vessel.

"That's caused by a depth charge," Blake announced. "They must be making sure of the submarine."

"If they haven't, we're a good target for her now," said Joe, as he noted the lights agleam on their steamer. "They're taking an awful chance, it seems to me."

"I guess the captain knows what he's doing," stated Blake. "He must have been signaled from the destroyers. We'll try to find out."

An officer went about among the passengers, calming them and telling them there was no danger now.

"But what happened?" asked Blake, and he and his chums waited eagerly for an answer.

"It was a submarine," was the officer's reply. "She came to attack us, trying to slip around or between our convoying ships. But one of the lookouts sighted her and depth charges were fired. The submarine came up, disabled, it seemed, but to make sure another charge was exploded beneath the surface. And that was the end of the Hun!" he cried.

"Good!" exclaimed Blake, and his chums also rejoiced. There was rejoicing, too, among the other passengers, for they had escaped death by almost as narrow a margin as before. Only the sharp lookout kept had saved them—that and the depth charge.

"But how does that depth charge work?" asked Charlie Anderson, when the chums were back in their cabin again, discussing what they had better do in reference to telling the captain of the conduct of Labenstein and Secor.

"It works on the principle that water is incompressible in any and all directions," answered Blake. "That is, pressure exerted on a body of water is transmitted in all directions by the water. Thus, if you push suddenly on top of a column of water the water rises.

"And if you set off an explosive below the surface of water the force goes up, down sidewise and in all directions. In fact, if you explode gun-cotton near a vessel below the surface it does more damage than if set off nearer to her but on the surface. The water transmits the power.

"A depth charge is a bomb timed to go off at a certain depth. If it explodes anywhere near a submarine, it blows in her plates and she is done for. That's what happened this time, I imagine."

And that is exactly what had happened, as nearly as could be told by the observers on the destroyer. The submarine had risen, only to sink disabled with all on board. A few pieces of wreckage and a quantity of oil floated to the surface but that was all.

Once more the Jeanne resumed her way in the midst of the protecting convoys, the value of which had been amply demonstrated. And when all was once more quiet on board, Blake and his chums resumed their talk about what was best to do regarding what they had observed just before the setting off of the depth charge.

"I think we ought to tell the captain," said Charlie.

"So do I," added Joe.

"And I agree with the majority," said Blake. "Captain Merceau shall be informed."

The commander was greatly astonished when told what the boys had seen. He questioned them at length, and made sure there could have been no mistake.

"And they gave a signal," mused the captain. "It hardly seems possible!"

"It was Labenstein who actually flashed the light," said Blake. "Do you know anything about him, Captain Merceau?"

"Nothing more than that his papers, passport, and so on are in proper shape. He is a citizen of your own country, and appeared to be all right, or he would not have been permitted to take passage with us. I am astounded!"

"What about the Frenchman?" asked Joe.

"Him I know," declared the captain. "Not well, but enough to say that I would have ventured everything on his honor. It does not seem possible that he can be a traitor!"

"And yet we saw him with the German while Labenstein was signaling the submarine," added Blake.

"Yes, I suppose it must be so. I am sorry! It is a blot on the fair name of France that one of her sons should so act! But we must be careful. It is not absolute proof, yet. They could claim that they were only on deck to smoke, or something like that. To insure punishment, we must have absolute proof. I thank you young gentlemen. From now on these two shall be under strict surveillance, and when we reach England I shall inform the authorities. You have done your duty. I will now be responsible for these men."

"That relieves us," said Blake. "We shan't stay in England long ourselves, so if you want our testimony you'd better arrange to have it taken soon after we land."

"I shall; and thank you! This is terrible!"

The boys realized that, as the captain had said, adequate proof would be required to cause the arrest and conviction of the two plotters. While it was morally certain that they had tried to bring about the successful attack on the French steamer, a court would want undisputed evidence to pronounce sentence, whether of death or imprisonment.

"I guess we'll have to leave it with the captain," decided Blake. "We can tell of his borrowing the light, and that we saw him flash it. Of course he can say we saw only his lighted cigarette, or something like that, and where would we be?"

"But there was the signal with the white cloth," added Joe.

"Yes, we could tell that, too; but it isn't positive."

"And there was Secor's running into me and spoiling our other films," said Charlie.

"That, too, would hardly be enough," went on Blake. "What the authorities will have to do will be to search the baggage of these fellows, and see if there is anything incriminating among their papers. We can't do that, so we'll have to wait."

And wait they did. In spite of what Captain Merceau had said, the boys did not relax their vigilance, but though, to their minds, the two men acted suspiciously, there was nothing definite that could be fastened on them.

Watchful guard was maintained night and day against an attack by submarines, and though there were several alarms, they turned out to be false. And in due season, the vessel arrived at "an English port," as the papers stated.

"Let's go and see if Captain Merceau wants us to give any evidence against those fellows," suggested Joe; and this seemed a good plan to follow.

"Ah, yes, my American friends!" the commander murmured, as the boys were shown into his cabin. "What can I do for you?"

"We thought we'd see if you wanted us in relation to the arrest of Secor and Labenstein," answered Blake.

"Ah, yes! The two men who signaled the submarine. I have had them under surveillance ever since you made your most startling disclosures. I sent a wireless to the war authorities here to come and place them under arrest as soon as the vessel docked. I have no doubt they are in custody now. I'll send and see."

He dispatched a messenger who, when he returned, held a rapid conversation with the captain in French. It was evident that something unusual had taken place.

The captain grew more excited, and finally, turning to the boys, said in English, which he spoke fluently:

"I regret to tell you there has been a mistake."

"A mistake!" cried Blake.

"Yes. Owing to some error, those men were released before the war authorities could apprehend them. They have gone ashore!"



CHAPTER XIII

UNDER SUSPICION

Blake, Joe and Charles looked at one another. Then they glanced at Captain Merceau. For one wild moment Blake had it in mind to suspect the commander; but a look at his face, which showed plainly how deeply chagrined he was at the failure to keep the two under surveillance, told the young moving picture operator that there was no ground for his thought.

"They got away!" repeated Joe, as though he could hardly believe it.

"Yes, I regret to say that is what my officer reports to me. It is too bad; but I will at once send out word, and they may be traced and apprehended. I'll at once send word to the authorities." This he did by the same messenger who had brought the intelligence that the Frenchman and the German had secretly left.

When this had been done, and the boys had got themselves ready to go ashore and report, Captain Merceau told them how it had happened. He had given orders, following the report made by Blake and his chums, that Secor and Labenstein should be kept under careful watch. And this was to be done without allowing them to become aware of it.

"However, I very much doubt if this was the case," the captain frankly admitted. "They are such scoundrels themselves that they would naturally suspect others of suspecting them. So they must have become aware of our plans, and then they made arrangements to elude the guard I set over them."

"How did they do that?" asked Blake.

"By a trick. One of them pretended to be ill and asked that the surgeon be summoned. This was the German. And when the guard hurried away on what he supposed was an errand of mercy, the two rascals slipped away. They were soon lost in the crowd. But we shall have them back, have no fear, young gentlemen."

But, all the same, Blake and his chums had grave doubts as to the ability of the authorities to capture the two men. Not that they had any fears for themselves, for, as Joe said, they had nothing to apprehend personally from the men.

"Unless they are after the new films we take," suggested Charles.

"Why should they want them?" asked Blake. "I mean, our films are not likely to give away any vital secrets," he went on.

"Well, I don't know," answered the lanky helper, "but I have a sort of hunch that they'll do all they can and everything they can to spoil our work for Uncle Sam on this side of the water, as they did before."

"Secor spoiled the films before," urged Blake. "He didn't know Labenstein then, as far as we know."

"Well, he knows him now," said Charles. "I'm going to be on the watch."

"I guess the authorities will be as anxious to catch those fellows as we are to have them," resumed Blake. "Putting a ship in danger of an attack from a submarine, as was undoubtedly done when Labenstein waved my flashlight, isn't a matter to be lightly passed over."

And the authorities took the same view. Soon after Captain Merceau had sent his report of the occurrence to London to the officials of the English war office, the boys were summoned before one of the officers directing the Secret Service and were closely questioned. They were asked to tell all they knew of the man calling himself Lieutenant Secor and the one who was on the passenger list as Levi Labenstein. This they did, relating everything from Charlie's accident with the Frenchman to the destruction of the submarine by the depth charge just after Labenstein had flashed his signal, assuming that this was what he had done.

"Very well, young gentlemen, I am exceedingly obliged to you," said the English officer. "The matter will be taken care of promptly and these men may be arrested. In that case, we shall want your evidence, so perhaps you had better let me know a little more about yourselves. I presume you have passports and the regulation papers?" and he smiled; but, as Blake said afterward, it was not exactly a trusting smile.

"He looked as if he'd like to catch us napping," Blake said.

However, the papers of the moving picture boys were in proper shape. But they were carefully examined, and during the process, when Joe, addressing Charles Anderson, spoke to him as "Macaroni," the officer looked up quickly.

"I thought his name was Charles," he remarked, as he referred to the papers.

"Certainly. But we call him 'Macaroni' sometimes because he looks like it—especially his legs," Joe explained.

"His legs macaroni?" questioned the English officer, regarding the three chums over the tops of his glasses. "Do you mean—er—that his legs are so easily broken—as macaroni is broken?"

"No, not that. It's because they're so thin," Joe added.

Still the officer did not seem to comprehend.

"It's a joke," added Blake.

Then the Englishman's face lit up.

"Oh, a joke!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you say so at first? Now I comprehend. A joke! Oh, that's different! His legs are like macaroni, so you call him spaghetti! I see! Very good! Very good!" and he laughed in a ponderous way.

"At the same time," he went on, "I think I shall make a note of it. I will just jot it down on the margin of his papers, that he is called 'Macaroni' as a joke. Some other officer might not see the point," he added. "I'm quite fond of a joke myself! This is a very good one. I shall make a note of it." And this he proceeded to do in due form.

"Well, if that isn't the limit!" murmured Joe, when the officer, having returned their papers to them, sent them to another department to get the necessary passes by which they could claim their baggage and make application to go to the front.

"It's a good thing this officer had a sense of humor," remarked Blake, half sarcastically, "or we might have had to send back for a special passport for one stick of macaroni."

If Blake and his chums had an idea they would at once be permitted to depart for "somewhere in France" and begin the work of taking moving pictures of Uncle Sam's boys in training and in the trenches, they were very soon disillusioned. It was one thing to land in England during war times, but it was another matter to get out, especially when they were not English subjects.

It is true that Mr. Hadley had made arrangements for the films to be made, and they were to be taken for and under the auspices of the United States War Department.

But England has many institutions, and those connected with war are bound up in much red tape, in which they are not unlike our own, in some respects.

The applications of Blake and his chums to depart for the United States base in France were duly received and attached to the application already made by Mr. Hadley and approved by the American commanding officer.

"And what happens next?" asked Blake, when they had filled out a number of forms in the English War Office. "I mean, where do we go from here?"

"Ah, that's one of your songs, isn't it?" asked an English officer, one who looked as though he could understand a joke better than could the one to whom macaroni so appealed.

"Yes, it's a song, but we don't want to stay here too long singing it," laughed Joe.

"Well, I'll do my best for you," promised the officer, who was a young man. He had been twice wounded at the front and was only awaiting a chance to go back, he said. "I'll do my best, but it will take a little time. We'll have to send the papers to France and wait for their return."

"And what are we to do in the meanwhile?" asked Blake.

"I fancy you'll just have to stay here and—what is it you say—split kindling?"

"'Saw wood,' I guess you mean," said Joe. "Well, if we have to, we have to. But please rush it along, will you?"

"I'll do my best," promised the young officer. "Meanwhile, you had better let me have your address—I mean the name of the hotel where you will be staying—and I'll send you word as soon as I get it myself. I had better tell you, though, that you will not be allowed to take any pictures—moving or other kind—until you have received permission."

"We'll obey that ruling," Blake promised. He had hoped to get some views of ruins caused by a Zeppelin. However, there was no hope of that.

On the recommendation of the young officer they took rooms in London at a hotel in a vicinity to enable them to visit the War Department easily. And then, having spent some time in these formalities and being again assured that they would be notified when they were wanted, either to be given permission to go to France or to testify against the two suspects, the moving picture boys went to their hotel.

It was not the first time they had been in a foreign country, though never before had they visited London, and they were much interested in everything they saw, especially everything which pertained to the war. And evidences of the war were on every side: injured and uninjured soldiers; poster appeals for enlistments, for the saving of food or money to win the war; and many other signs and mute testimonies of the great conflict.

The boys found their hotel a modest but satisfactory one, and soon got in the way of living there, planning to stay at least a week. They learned that their food would be limited in accordance with war regulations, but they had expected this.

There was something else, though, which they did not expect, and which at first struck them as being decidedly unpleasant. It was the second day of their stay in London that, as they were coming back to their hotel from a visit to a moving picture show, Joe remarked:

"Say, fellows, do you notice that man in a gray suit and a black slouch hat across the street?"

"I see him," admitted Blake.

"Have you seen him before?" Joe asked.

"Yes, I have," said Blake. "He was in the movies with us, and I saw him when we left the hotel."

"So did I," went on Joe. "And doesn't it strike you as being peculiar?"

"In what way?" asked Charles.

"I mean he seems to be following us."

"What in the world for?" asked the assistant.

"Well," went on Joe slowly, "I rather think we're under suspicion. That's the way it strikes me!"



CHAPTER XIV

IN CUSTODY

Blake and Charlie nodded their heads as Joe gave voice to his suspicion. Then, as they looked across once again at the man in the slouch hat, he seemed aware of their glances and slunk down an alley.

"But I think he has his eye on us, all the same," observed Blake, as the boys went into their hotel.

"What are we going to do about it?" inquired Charlie. "Shall we put up a kick or a fight?"

"Neither one," decided Blake, after a moment's thought.

"Why not?" inquired Macaroni, with rather a belligerent air, as befitted one in the midst of war's alarms. "Why not go and ask this fellow what he means by spying on us?"

"In the first place, if we could confront him, which I very much doubt," answered Blake, "he would probably deny that he was even so much as looking at us, except casually. Those fellows from Scotland Yard, or whatever the English now call their Secret Service, are as keen as they make 'em. We wouldn't get any satisfaction by kicking."

"Then let's fight!" suggested Charlie. "We can protest to the officer who told us to wait here for our permits to go to the front. We can say we're United States citizens and we object to being spied on. Let's do it!"

"Yes, we could do that," said Blake slowly. "But perhaps we are being kept under surveillance by the orders of that same officer."

"What in the world for?"

"Well, because the authorities may want to find out more about us."

"But didn't we have our passports all right? And weren't our papers in proper shape?" asked Charlie indignantly.

"As far as we ourselves are concerned, yes," said Blake. "But you must remember that passports have been forged before, by Germans, and——"

"I hope they don't take us for Germans!" burst out Charlie.

"Well, we don't look like 'em, that's a fact," said Blake, with a smile. "But you must remember that the English have been stung a number of times, and they aren't taking any more chances."

"Just what do you think this fellow's game is?" asked Charlie.

"Well," answered Blake slowly, and as if considering all sides of the matter. "I think he has been detailed by the English Foreign Office, or Secret Service, or whoever has the matter in charge, to keep an eye on us and see if we are really what we claim to be. That's all. I don't see any particular harm in it; and if we objected, kicked, or made a row, it would look as if we might be guilty. So I say let it go and let that chap do all the spying he likes."

"Well, I guess you're right," assented Joe.

"Same here," came from their helper.

"Anyhow, we might as well make the best of it," resumed Blake. "If we had a fight with this chap and made him skedaddle, it would only mean another would be put on our trail. Just take it easy, and in due time, I think, we'll be given our papers and allowed to go to the front."

"It can't come any too soon for me," declared Joe.

So for the next few days the boys made it a point to take no notice of the very obvious fact that they were under surveillance. It was not always the same man who followed them or who was seen standing outside the hotel when they went out and returned. In fact, they were sure three different individuals had them in charge, so to speak.

The boys were used to active work with their cameras and liked to be in action, but they waited with as good grace as possible. In fact, there was nothing else to do. Their moving picture apparatus was sealed and kept in the Foreign Office, and would not be delivered to them until their permits came to go to the front. So, liking it or not, the boys had to submit.

They called several times on the young officer who had treated them so kindly, to ask whether there were any developments in their case; but each time they were told, regretfully enough, it seemed, that there was none.

"But other permits have been longer than yours in coming," said the officer, with a smile. "You must have a little patience. We are not quite as rapid as you Americans."

"But we want to get to the war front!" exclaimed Joe. "We want to make some pictures, and if we have to wait——"

"Possess your souls with patience," advised the officer. "The war is going to last a long, long time, longer than any of us have any idea of, I am afraid. You will see plenty of fighting, more's the pity. Don't fret about that."

But the boys did fret; and as the days passed they called at the permit office not once but twice, and, on one occasion, three times in twenty-four hours. The official was always courteous to them, but had the same answer:

"No news yet!"

And then, when they had spent two weeks in London—two weeks that were weary ones in spite of the many things to see and hear—the boys were rather surprised on the occasion of their daily visit to the permit office to be told by a subordinate:

"Just a moment, if you please. Captain Bedell wishes to speak to you."

The captain was the official who had their affair in charge, and who had been so courteous to them.

"He wants us to wait!" exclaimed Joe, with marked enthusiasm. For the last few days the captain had merely sent out word that there was no news.

"Maybe he has the papers!" cried Macaroni.

"I'm sure I hope so," murmured Blake.

The boys waited in the outer office with manifest impatience until the clerk came to summon them into the presence of Captain Bedell, saying:

"This way, if you please."

"Sounds almost like a dentist inviting you into his chair," murmured Joe to Blake.

"Not as bad as that, I hope. It looks encouraging to be told to wait and come in."

They were ushered into the presence of Captain Bedell, who greeted them, not with a smile, as he had always done before, but with a grave face.

Instantly each of the boys, as he admitted afterward, thought something was wrong.

"There's something out of the way with our passports," was Joe's idea.

"Been a big battle and the British have lost," guessed Macaroni.

Blake's surmise was:

"There's a hitch and we can't go to the front."

As it happened, all three were wrong, for a moment later, after he had asked them to be seated, Captain Bedell touched a bell on his desk. An orderly answered and he was told:

"These are the young gentlemen."

"Does that mean we are to get our permits?" asked Joe eagerly.

"I am sorry to say it does not," was the grave answer. "I am also sorry to inform you that you are in custody."

"In custody!" cried the three at once. And Blake a moment later added:

"On what grounds?"

"That I am not at liberty to tell you, exactly," the officer replied. "You are arrested under the Defense of the Realm Act, and the charges will be made known to you in due course of time."

"Arrested!" cried Joe. "Are we really arrested?"

"Not as civil but as military prisoners," went on Captain Bedell. "There is quite a difference, I assure you. I am sorry, but I have to do my duty. Orderly, take the prisoners away. You may send for counsel, of course," he added.

"We don't know a soul here, except some moving picture people to whom we have letters of introduction," Blake said despondently.

"Well, communicate with some of them," advised the captain. "They will be able to recommend a solicitor. Not that it will do you much good, for you will have to remain in custody for some time, anyhow."

"Are we suspected of being spies?" asked Joe, determined to hazard that question.

Captain Bedell smiled for the first time since the boys had entered his office. It was a rather grim contortion of the face, but it could be construed into a smile.

"I am not at liberty to tell you," he said. "Orderly, take the prisoners away, and give them the best of care, commensurate, of course, with safe-keeping."



CHAPTER XV

THE FRONT AT LAST

Well, wouldn't this get your——"

"Billiard table!" finished Joe for his chum Blake, who seemed at a loss for a word.

"Why billiard table?" asked Blake.

"Because they've sort of put the English on us!" And Joe laughed at his joke—if it could be called that.

"Huh!" grunted Blake, "I'm glad you feel so about it. But this is fierce! That's what I call it—fierce!"

"Worse than that!" murmured Charlie. "And the worst of it is they won't give us a hint what it's all about."

"There is a good deal of mystery about it," chimed in Joe.

"All but about the fact that we're in a jail, or the next thing to it," added Blake, with a look about the place where he and his chums had been taken from the office of Captain Bedell.

They were actually in custody, and while there were no bars to the doors of their prison, which were of plain, but heavy, English oak, there were bars to the windows. Aside from that, they might be in some rather ordinary hotel suite, for there were three connecting rooms and what passed for a bath, though this seemed to have been added after the place was built.

As a matter of fact, the three boys were held virtually as captives, in a part of the building given over to the secret service work of the war. They had been escorted to the place by the orderly, who had instructions to treat his prisoners with consideration, and he had done that.

"This is one of our—er—best—apartments," he said, with an air of hesitation, as though he had been about to call it a cell but had thought better of it. "I hope you will be comfortable here."

"We might be if we knew what was going to happen to us and what it's all about," returned Blake, with a grim smile.

"That is information I could not give you, were I at liberty to do so, sir," answered the orderly. "Your solicitor will act for you, I have no doubt."

Following the advice of Captain Bedell, the boys had communicated with some of their moving picture friends in London, with the result that a solicitor, or lawyer, as he would be called in the United States, promised to act for the boys. He was soon to call to see them, and, meanwhile, they were waiting in their "apartment."

"I wonder how it all happened?" mused Joe, as he looked from one of the barred windows at the not very cheerful prospect of roofs and chimneys.

"And what is the charge?" asked Charlie. "We can't even find that out."

"It practically amounts to being charged with being spies," said Blake. "That is what I gather from the way we are being treated. We are held as spies!"

"And Uncle Sam is fighting for the Allies!" cried Joe.

"Oh, well, it's all a mistake, of course, and we can explain it as soon as we get a chance and have the United States consul give us a certificate of good character," went on Blake. "That's what we've got to have our lawyer do when he comes—talk with the United States consul."

"Well, I wish he'd hurry and come," remarked Joe. "It is no fun being detained here. I want to get to the front and see some action. Our cameras will get rusty if we don't use them."

"That's right," agreed Macaroni.

It was not until the next day, however, that a solicitor came, explaining that he had been delayed after getting the message from the boys. The lawyer, as Blake and his friends called him, proved to be a genial gentleman who sympathized with the boys.

He had been in New York, knew something about moving pictures, and, best of all, understood the desire of the American youths to be free and to get into action.

"The first thing to be done," said Mr. Dorp, the solicitor, "is to find out the nature of the charge against you, and who made it. Then we will be in a position to act. I'll see Captain Bedell at once."

This he did, with the result that the boys were taken before the officer, who smiled at them, said he was sorry for what had happened, but that he had no choice in the matter.

"As for the nature of the charge against you, it is this," he said. "It was reported to us that you came here to get pictures of British defenses to be sold to Germany, and that your desire to go to the front, to get views of and for the American army, was only a subterfuge to cover your real purpose."

"Who made that charge?" asked Blake.

"It came in a letter to the War Department," was the answer, "and from some one who signed himself Henry Littlefield of New York City. He is in London, and he would appear when wanted, he said."

"May I see that letter?" asked the lawyer, and when it was shown to him he passed it over to the boys, asking if they knew the writer or recognized the handwriting.

And at this point the case of the prosecution, so to speak, fell through. For Blake, with a cry of surprise, drew forth from his pocket another letter, saying:

"Compare the writing of that with the letter denouncing us! Are they not both in the same hand?"

"They seem to be," admitted Captain Bedell, after an inspection.

"From whom is your letter?" asked Mr. Dorp.

"From Levi Labenstein, the man who summoned the submarine to sink the Jeanne," answered Blake. "This letter dropped from his pocket when he came to me to borrow the flashlight. I intended to give it back to him, as it is one he wrote to some friend and evidently forgot to mail. It contains nothing of importance, as far as I can see, though it may be in cipher. But this letter, signed with his name, is in the same hand as the one signed 'Henry Littlefield,' denouncing us."

"Then you think it all a plot?" asked Captain Bedell.

"Of course!" cried Joe. "Why didn't you say before, Blake, that you had a letter from this fellow?"

"I didn't attach any importance to it until I saw the letter accusing us. Now the whole thing is clear. He wants us detained here for some reason, and took this means of bringing it about."

"If that is the case, you will soon be cleared," said Captain Bedell.

And the boys soon were. There was no doubt but that the two letters were in the same hand. And when it was explained what part the suspected German had played aboard the steamer and cables from America to the United States consul had vouched for the boys, they were set free with apologies.

And what pleased them still more was Captain Bedell's announcement:

"I also have the pleasure to inform you that the permits allowing you to go to the front have been received. They came yesterday, but, of course, under the circumstances I could not tell you."

"Then may we get on the firing line?" asked Blake.

"As soon as you please. We will do all we can to speed you on your way. It is all we can do to repay for the trouble you have had."

"These are war times, and one can't be too particular," responded Joe. "We don't mind, now that we can get a real start."

"I'd like to get at that fake Jew and the Frenchman who spoiled the films!" murmured Charles.

"Charlie can forgive everything but those spoiled films," remarked Blake, with a chuckle.

"We will try to apprehend the two men," promised Captain Bedell, "but I am afraid it is too late. It may seem strange to you that we held you on the mere evidence of a letter from a man we did not know. But you must remember that the nerves of every one are more or less upset over what has happened. The poison of Germany's spy system had permeated all of us, and nothing is normal. A man often suspects his best friend, so though it may have seemed unusual to you to be arrested, or detained, as we call it, still when all is considered it was not so strange.

"However, you are at liberty to go now, and we will do all we can to help you. I have instructions to set you on your way to the front as soon as you care to go, and every facility will be given you to take all the pictures of your own troops you wish. I regret exceedingly what has happened."

"Oh, let it go!" said Blake cheerfully. "You treated us decently, and, as you say, these are war times."

"Which is my only excuse," said the captain, with a smile. "Now I am going to see if we can not apprehend that German and his French fellow-conspirator."

But, as may be guessed, "Henry Littlefield" was not to be found, nor Lieutenant Secor, nor Levi Labenstein.

"Labenstein probably wrote that letter accusing us and mailed it just to make trouble because we suspected him and Secor," said Blake.

"Well, it's lucky you had that note from him, or you'd never have been able to convince the authorities here that he was a faker," remarked Joe. "I guess he didn't count on that."

"Probably not," agreed Blake. "And now, boys, let's get busy!"

There was much to do after their release. They went back to their hotel and began getting their baggage in shape for the trip to France. Their cameras and reels were released from the custody of the war officials, and with a glad smile Macaroni began overhauling them to see that they had not been damaged on the trip.

"Right as ever!" he remarked, after a test. "Now they can begin the parlez vous Francaise? business as soon as they please."

Two days later the boys embarked for the passage across the Channel, and though it was a desperately rough one, they were, by this time, seasoned travelers and did not mind it.

The journey through France up to the front was anything but pleasant. The train was slow and the cars uncomfortable, but the boys made the best of it, and finally one afternoon, as the queer little engine and cars rolled slowly up to what served for a station, there came to their ears dull boomings.

"Thunder?" asked Joe, for the day was hot and sultry.

"Guns at the front," remarked a French officer, who had been detailed to be their guide the last part of the journey.

"At the front at last! Hurrah!" cried Joe.

"Perhaps you will not feel like cheering when you have been here a week or two," said the French officer.

"Sure we will!" declared Charlie. "We can do something now besides look at London chimney pots. We can get action!"

As the boys looked about on the beautiful little French village where they were to be quartered for some time, it was hard to realize that, a few miles away, men were engaged in deadly strife, that guns were booming, killing and maiming, and that soon they might be looking on the tangled barbed-wire defense of No Man's Land.

But the dull booming, now and then rising to a higher note, told them the grim truth.

They were at the war front at last!



CHAPTER XVI

THE FIRING LINE

"Hello! Where are you fellows from?"

It was rather a sharp challenge, yet not unfriendly, that greeted Blake, Joe and Charlie, as they were walking from the house where they had been billeted, through the quaint street of the still more quaint French village. "Where are you from?"

"New York," answered Blake, as he turned to observe a tall, good-natured-looking United States infantryman regarding him and his two chums.

"New York, eh? I thought so! I'm from that burg myself, when I'm at home. Shake, boys! You're a sight for sore eyes. Not that I've got 'em, but some of the fellows have—and worse. From New York! That's mighty good! Shake again!"

And they did shake hands all around once more.

"My name's Drew—Sam Drew," announced the private. "I'm one of the doughboys that came over first with Pershing. Are you newspaper fellows?"

"No. Moving picture," answered Blake.

"You don't say so! That's great! Shake again. When are you going to give a show?"

"Oh, we're not that kind," explained Joe. "We're here to take army films."

"Oh, shucks!" cried Private Drew. "I thought we were to see something new. The boys here are just aching for something new. There's a picture show here, but the machine's busted and nobody can fix it. We had a few reels run off, but that's all. Say, we're 'most dead from what these French fellows call ong we, though o-n-g-w-e ain't the way you spell it. If we could go to one show——"

"You say there's a projector here?" interrupted Joe eagerly.

"Well, I don't know what you call it, but there's a machine here that showed some pictures until it went on the blink."

"Maybe I can fix it," went on Joe, still eagerly. "Let's have a look at it. But where do you get current from? This town hasn't electric lights."

"No, but we've got a gasolene engine and a dynamo. The officers' quarters and some of the practice trenches are lighted by electricity. Oh, we have some parts of civilization here, even if we are near the trenches!"

"If you've got current and that projection machine isn't too badly broken, maybe I can fix her up," said Joe. "Let's have a look at it."

"Oh, I'll lead you to it, all right, Buddy!" cried Private Drew. "We'll just eat up some pictures if we can get 'em! Come along! This way for the main show!" and he laughed like a boy.

Among the outfits sent with the troops quartered in this particular sector was a moving picture machine and many reels of film. But, as Sam Drew had said, the machine was broken.

After Blake and his chums had reported to the officer to whom they had letters of introduction and had been formally given their official designation as takers of army war films, they went to the old barn which had been turned into a moving picture theater.

There was a white cloth screen and a little gallery, made in what had been the hay mow, for the projector machine. Joe Duncan, as the expert mechanician of the trio, at once examined this, and said it could soon be put in readiness for service.

"Whoop!" yelled Private Drew, who seemed to have constituted himself the particular guide and friend of the moving picture boys. "Whoop! that's as good as getting a letter from home! Go to it, Buddy!"

And that first night of the boys' stay at that particular part of France was the occasion of a moving picture show. All who could crowded into the barn, and the reels were run over and over again as different relays of officers and men attended. For the officers were as eager as the privates, and the moving picture boys were welcomed with open arms.

"You sure did make a hit!" laughed Private Drew. "Yes, a sure-fire hit! Now let Fritz bang away. We should worry!"

But all was not moving pictures for Blake, Joe and their assistant, nor for the soldier boys, either. There was hard and grim work to do in order to be prepared for the harder and grimmer work to come. The United States troops were going through a period of intensive trench training to be ready to take their share of the fighting with the French and British forces.

The village where Blake and his chums were quartered was a few miles from the front, but so few that day and night, save when there was a lull, the booming of guns could be heard.

"There hasn't been much real fighting, of late," Private Drew informed the boys the day after their arrival. "It's mostly artillery stuff, and our boys are in that. Now and then a party of us goes over the top or on night listening-patrol. Fritz does the same, but, as yet, we haven't had what you could call a good fight. And we're just aching for it, too."

"That's what we want to get pictures of," said Blake. "Real fighting at the front trenches!"

"Oh, you'll get it," prophesied the private. "There's a rumor that we'll have some hot stuff soon. Some of our aircraft that have been strafing Fritz report that there's something doing back of the lines. Shouldn't wonder but they'll try to rush us some morning. That is, if we don't go over the top at 'em first."

"I hope we'll be there!" murmured Joe. "And I hope we get a good light so we can film the fighting."

"They'll be almost light enough from the star-shells, bombs and big guns," said Private Drew. "Say, you ought to see the illumination some nights when the Boches start to get busy! Coney Island is nothing to it, Buddy!"

Before the moving picture boys could get into real action on the front line trenches, there were certain formalities to go through, and they had to undergo a bit of training.

Captain Black, to whom they were responsible and to whom they had to report each day, wanted first some films of life in the small village where the troops were quartered when not in the trenches. This was to show the "boys at home" what sort of life was in prospect for them.

Aside from the danger ever present in war in any form, life in the quaint little town was pleasant. The boys in khaki were comfortably housed, they had the best of army food, and their pleasures were not few. With the advent of Blake and his chums and the putting in operation of the moving picture show, enthusiasm ran high, and nothing was too good for the new arrivals.

But they had their work to do, for they were official photographers and were entrusted with certain duties. Back of the firing line, of course, there was no danger, unless from air raids. But after the first week, during which they took a number of reels of drilling and recreation scenes, there came a period of preparation.

Blake, Joe and Charlie were given gas masks and shown how to use them. They were also each provided with an automatic pistol and were given uniforms. For they had to be on the firing line and on such occasions were not really of the non-combatant class, though they were not supposed to take part in the fighting unless it should be to protect themselves.

At the suggestion of Captain Black the boys had made sheet-iron cases for their cameras and reels of film.

"Of course, if a shell comes your way that case won't be much protection," said the United States officer. "But shrapnel won't go through it."

Steel helmets were also given the boys to wear when they went on duty in the firing trenches, and they were told under no circumstances to leave them off.

"For even if there isn't any shooting from across No Man's Land," explained Captain Black, "a hostile aircraft may drop a bomb that will scatter a lot of steel bullets around. So wear your helmets and keep the cases on your cameras."

It was a week after this, during which time there had been several false alarms of a big German attack, that one evening as they were about to turn in after having given a moving picture show an orderly came up to Blake.

"You and your two friends will report to Captain Black at four o'clock to-morrow morning," said the orderly.

"Why that hour?" asked Joe curiously.

"We're going over the top," was the answer. "You may get some pictures then."

Charles Anderson hastily consulted a small book he took from his pocket.

"What you doing?" asked Blake.

"Looking to see what time the sun rises. I want to see if there'll be light enough to make pictures. Yes," he went on, as he found what he wanted in the miniature almanac, "we ought to be able to get some shots."

The gray wreaths of a fog that had settled down in the night were being dispelled by the advance heralds of dawn in the shape of a few faint streaks of light when Blake and his chums, wearing their steel helmets and with the steel-protected cameras, started from the farmhouse where they were quartered to report to Captain Black.

"All ready, boys?" the captain called. "We're going over the top at five-seven—just as soon as the artillery puts down a barrage to clear the way for us. You're to get what pictures you can. I'll leave that part to you. But don't get ahead of the barrage fire—that is, if you want to come back," he added significantly.

"All right," answered Blake, in a low voice.

He and his chums took their places in one of the communicating trenches, waiting for the American and the French soldiers in the front ones to spring up and go "over the top."

Every minute seemed an hour, and there were frequent consultations of wrist watches. Suddenly, at five o'clock exactly, there was a roar that sounded like a hundred bursts of thunder. The artillery had opened the engagement, and the moving picture boys, at last on the firing line, grasped their cameras and reels of film as the soldiers grasped their guns and waited for the word to go.

The earth beneath them seemed to rock with the concussion of the big guns.



CHAPTER XVII

BOWLED OVER

Not a man of the American and French forces that were to attack the Germans had yet left the protecting trench. The object of the artillery fire, which always preceded an attack unless it was a surprise one with tanks, was to blow away the barbed-wire entanglements, and, if possible, dispose of some of the enemy guns as well as the fighting men.

The barrage was really a "curtain of fire" moving ahead of the attacking troops to protect them. This curtain actually advanced, for the guns belching out the rain of steel and lead were slowly elevated, and with the elevation a longer range was obtained.

Waiting in a trench slightly behind the troops that were soon to go into action, Blake Stewart and his chums talked, taking no care to keep down their voices. Indeed, they had to yell to be heard.

"Well, we're here at last," said Blake.

"Yes; and it looks as if there'd be plenty of action," added Joe.

"If it only gets lighter and the smoke doesn't hang down so," added Charlie. "We won't get very good films if it doesn't get lighter. It's fierce now."

"Well, if the fighting lasts long enough the sun will soon be higher and the light better," responded Blake. "And it sounds as if this was going to be a big fight."

By this time the German guns seemed to have awakened, and were replying to the fire from the American and French artillery. The shells flew screaming over the heads of those in the trenches, and instinctively Blake and his companions ducked.

Then they realized how futile this was. As a matter of fact, the shells were passing high over them and exploding even back of the line of cannon. For the Germans did not yet have the range, some of the Allies' guns having been moved up during the night.

Suddenly, though how the signal was given the moving picture boys did not learn until afterward, there was activity in the trenches before them. With yells that sounded only faintly above the roar of the big guns, the American and French soldiers went "over the top," and rushed toward the German trenches.

"Come on!" cried Blake. "This is our chance!"

"It isn't light enough!" complained Charlie, as he ran along the communicating trench with the other two lads to the front line ditch. "We can't get good pictures now."

"It's getting lighter!" cried Blake. "Come on!"

He and Joe were to work the cameras, with Charles Anderson to stand by with spare reels of film, and to lend a helping hand if need be.

Along the narrow trench they rushed, carrying their machines which, it was hoped, would catch on the sensitive celluloid the scenes, or some of them, that were taking place in front. Mad scenes they were, too—scenes of bursting shells, of geysers of rock and earth being tossed high by some explosion, of men rushing forward to take part in the deadly combat.

As Blake had said, the scene was lighting up now. The sun rose above the mists and above the smoke of the guns, for though some smokeless powder was used, there was enough of the other variety to produce great clouds of vapor.

Behind the line of rushing soldiers, who were all firing their rifles rapidly, rushed the moving picture boys. They were looking for a spot on which to set their machines to get good views of the engagement.

"This'll do!" yelled Blake, as they came to a little hill, caused by the upheaval of dirt in some previous shell explosion. "We can stand here!"

"All right!" agreed Joe. "I'll go a little to one side so we won't duplicate."

The barrage fire had lifted, biting deeper into the ranks and trenches of the Germans. But they, on their part, had found the range more accurately, and were pouring an answering bombardment into the artillery stations of the French and Americans.

And then, as the sun came out clear, the boys had a wonderful view of what was going on. Before them the French and Uncle Sam's boys were fighting with the Germans, who had been driven from their trenches. On all sides were rifles belching fire and sending out the leaden messengers of death.

And there, in the midst of the fighting but off to one side and out of the line of direct fire, stood Blake, Joe and Charlie, the two former turning the handles of the cameras and taking pictures even as they had stood in the midst of the volcanoes and earthquakes, or in the perils of the deep, making views.

The fighting became a mad riot of sound—the sound of big guns and little—the sound of bursting shells from either side—the yells of the men—the shouting of the officers and the shrill cries of the wounded.

It took all the nerve of the three lads to stand at their posts and see men killed and maimed before their eyes, but they were under orders, and did not waver. For these scenes, terrible and horrible though they were, were to serve the good purpose of stimulating those at home, in safety across the sea, to a realization of the perils of war and the menace of the Huns.

The fighting was now at its fiercest. The Germans had an accurate idea of the location of the American and French cannon by this time, and the artillery duel was taking place, while between that double line of fire the infantry were at body-grips.

Hand grenades were being tossed to and fro. Men were emptying the magazines of their rifles or small arms fairly into the faces of each other.

When a soldier's ammunition gave out, or his gun choked from the hot fire, he swung the rifle as a club or used the bayonet. And then came dreadful scenes—scenes that the moving picture boys did not like to think about afterward. But war is a grim and terrible affair, and they were in the very thick of it.

Suddenly, as Blake and Joe were grinding away at their cameras, now and then shifting them to get a different view, something that made shrill whistling sounds, passed over their heads.

"What's that?" asked Charlie, who stood ready with a reel of spare film for Blake's machine.

"Bullets, I reckon," answered Joe. "They seem to be coming our way, too."

"Maybe we'd better get out of here," suggested Blake. "We've got a lot of views, and——"

"Don't run yet, Buddies!" called a voice, and along came Private Drew. "You'll never hear the bullet that hits you. And they're firing high, the Fritzes are! Don't run yet. How're you making it?"

"All right so far, but it's—fierce!" cried Blake, as he stopped for a moment to let a smoke cloud blow away.

"Yes, it's a hot little party, all right," replied the soldier, with a grin. "I haven't had all my share yet. Had to go back with an order. Hi, here comes one!" and instinctively he dodged, as did the others, though a moment later it was borne to them that it was of little use to dodge on the battlefield.

Something flew screaming and whining over their heads, and fell a short distance away.

"It's a shell!" cried Joe, as he saw it half bury itself in the earth. "Look out!"

Private Drew gave one look at the place where the German missile had fallen, not ten feet away, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he cried:

"It's only a dud!"

"What's that?" asked Joe.

"Shell that didn't explode," answered the soldier. "The Fritzes have fired a lot of them lately. Guess their ammunition must be going back on them. It's only a dud!"

He was about to pass on, and the moving picture boys were going to resume their making of films, when another scream and whine like the first came, but seemingly nearer.

Instinctively all four looked up, and saw something flashing over their heads. They could feel the wind of the shell, for that is what it was, and then the chance shot from the German gun fell about fifty feet behind the group.

The next instant there was a tremendous explosion, and Blake and the others felt themselves being tossed about and knocked down as by a mighty wind.



CHAPTER XVIII

TRENCH LIFE

Blake was the first to scramble to his feet, rolling out from beneath a pile of dirt and stones that had been tossed on him as the shell heaved up a miniature geyser and covered him with the debris. Then, after a shake, such as a dog gives himself when he emerges from the water, and finding himself, as far as he could tell, uninjured, he looked to his companions.

Private Drew was staggering about, holding his right hand to his head, and on his face was a look of grim pain. But it passed in an instant as he cried to Blake:

"Hurt Buddy?"

"I don't seem to be," was the answer, given during a lull in the bombardment and firing. "But I'm afraid——"

He did not finish the sentence, but looked apprehensively at his prostrate chums. Both Joe and Charlie lay motionless, half covered with dirt. One camera had been upset and the tripod was broken. The other, which Blake had been operating, seemed intact.

"Maybe they're only knocked out. That happens lots of times," said Drew. "We'll have a look."

"But you're hurt yourself!" exclaimed Blake, looking at a bloody hand the soldier removed from his head.

"Only a scratch, Buddy! A piece of the shell grazed me. First I thought it had taken me for fair, but it's only a scratch. If I don't get any worse than that I'm lucky. Now to have a look at your bunkies."

Charles Anderson seemed to need little looking after, for he arose to his feet, appearing somewhat dazed, but not hurt, as far as was evidenced.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Just a little bit of a compliment from our friend Fritz," answered Drew. "That was a real shell—no dud—but it exploded far enough away from us not to do an awful lot of damage. That is, unless your other bunkie is worse hurt."

"I'm afraid he is," observed Blake, for Joe had not yet moved, and dirt covered him thickly.

The center of the fighting seemed to have passed beyond the group of moving picture boys by this time. Blake, Charlie and Drew turned to where Joe lay and began scraping the dirt from him.

He stirred uneasily while they were doing this, and murmured:

"It's all right. Put in another reel."

"Touched on the head," said the soldier. "We'd better get him back of the lines where he can see a doctor. Your machine got a touch of it, too."

Anderson hurried over to the overturned camera. A quick examination showed him that it had suffered no more damage than the broken support.

"It's all right," he announced. "Not even light-struck, I guess. I'll take this and the boxes of film," and he shouldered his burden.

"Well, I'll take your bunkie—guess I can manage to carry him better than you, for we've had practice in that—and you can shoulder the other picture machine," said Drew, as he moved over to Joe. "We won't wait for the stretcher-men. They won't be along for some time if this keeps up. Come on now."

"But can you manage, hurt as you are?" asked Blake.

"Oh, sure! Mine's only a scratch. Wait, I'll give myself a little first aid and then I'll be all right."

With the help of Blake the soldier disinfected his wound with a liquid he took from his field kit, and then, having bound a bandage around his head, he picked up the still unconscious Joe and started back with him to the rear trenches.

They had to make a detour to avoid some of the German fire, which was still hot in sections, but finally managed to get to a place of comparative safety. Here they were met by a party of ambulance men, and Joe was placed on a stretcher and taken to a first dressing station.

Meanwhile, Anderson put the cameras with their valuable reels of film in a bomb-proof structure.

"Is he badly hurt?" asked Blake anxiously of the surgeon.

"I hope not. In fact, I think not," was the reassuring answer of the American army surgeon. "He has been shocked, and there is a bad bruise on one side, where he seems to have been struck by a stone thrown by the exploding shell. But a few days' rest will bring him around all right. Pretty close call, was it?"

"Oh, it might have been worse," answered Drew, whose wound had also been attended to. "It was just a chance shot."

"Well, I don't know that it makes an awful lot of difference whether it's a chance shot or one that is aimed at you, as long as it hits," said the surgeon. "However, you are luckily out of it. How does it seem, to be under fire?" he asked Blake.

"Well, I can't say I fancy it as a steady diet, and yet it wasn't quite as bad as I expected. And we got the pictures all right."

"That's good!" the surgeon said. "Well, your friend will be all right. He's coming around nicely now," for Joe was coming out of the stupor caused by the blow on the head from a clod of earth.

At first he was a bit confused—"groggy," Private Drew called it—but he soon came around, and though he could not walk because of the injury to his side, he was soon made comparatively comfortable and taken to a hospital just behind the lines.

As this was near the house where Charlie and Blake were quartered, they could easily visit their chum each day, which they did for the week that he was kept in bed.

As Charles had surmised, the films in the cameras were not damaged, and were removed to be sent back for development. The broken tripod was repaired sufficiently to be usable again, and then the boys began to prepare for their next experience.

The engagement in which Joe had been hurt was a comparatively small one, but it netted a slight advance for the French and American troops, and enabled a little straightening of their trench line to be made, a number of German dug-outs having been demolished and their machine guns captured. This, for a time at least, removed a serious annoyance to those who had to occupy the front line trenches.

Though Joe improved rapidly in the hospital, for some time his side was very sore. He had to turn his camera over to Charlie, and it was fortunate the lanky helper had been brought along, for the work would have proved too much for Blake alone.

Following that memorable, because it was the first, going "over the top," there was a period of comparative quiet. Of course there was sniping day and night, and not a few casualties from this form of warfare, but it was to be expected and "all in the day's work," as Private Drew called it.

Blake, Joe and Charlie were complimented by Captain Black for their bravery in going so close to the front line in getting the pictures; then he added:

"You can have it a little easier for a while. What we want now are some scenes of trench life as it exists before an engagement. So get ready for that."

This Blake and Charlie did, while Joe sat in the sun and tried to learn French from a little boy, the son of the couple in whose house the moving picture boys were quartered.

Though the American and French soldiers, with here and there a Canadian or English regiment, lived so near the deadly front line, there were periods, some lengthy, of quiet and even amusement. Of course, the deaths lay heavy on all the soldiers when they allowed themselves to think of their comrades who had perished. And more than one gazed with wet eyes at the simple wooden crosses marking the graves "somewhere in France."

But officers and men alike knew how fatal to spirit it was to dwell on the sad side of war. So, as much as possible, there was in evidence a sense of lightness and a feeling that all was for the best—that it must be for the best.

Now and then there were night raids, and occasionally parties of German prisoners were brought in. Blake and Charlie made moving pictures of these as they were taken back to the cages. Most of the Germans seemed glad to be captured, which meant that they were now definitely out of the terrible scenes of the war. They would be held in safety until after the conflict, and they seemed to know this, for they laughed and joked as they were filmed. They appeared to like it, and shouted various words of joking import in their guttural voices to the boys.

A week after coming out of the hospital Joe was able to take up light work, and did his share of making pictures of trench life. He had a big bruise on one side, a discolored patch that had an unpleasant look, but which soon ceased to give much pain except after a period of exertion.

"Well, you're a veteran now—been wounded," said Blake to his chum.

"Yes, I suppose you can call it that. I don't care for any more, though."

The plan in operation at this particular section of the front where the moving picture boys were quartered and on duty was for the soldiers to spend five or six days in the trenches, taking turns of duty near No Man's Land, and then going back to rest in the dug-outs. After that they would have a day or so of real rest back of the lines, out of reach of the big guns.

And there the real fun of soldiering, if fun it can be called amid the grim business of war, was to be had. The officers and men vied with one another in trying to forget the terrible scenes through which they had gone, and little entertainments were gotten up, the moving picture boys doing their share.

Thus they obtained views of trench life both grave and gay, though it must be admitted that the more serious predominated. There were many wounded, many killed, and, occasionally, one of the parties going out on patrol or listening-duty at night would never come back, or, at most, one or two wounded men would come in to tell of a terrific struggle with a party of Huns.

Sometimes, though, the tale would be the other way around, and the Americans would come in with a number of captives who showed the effects of severe fighting.



CHAPTER XIX

GASSED

"Well, there's one thing about it," remarked Joe to Blake one day, as they sat in the shade beside the French cottage waiting for orders. "This isn't as nervous work as traveling on a ship, waiting for a submarine."

It was three weeks after the first and only engagement they had taken part in, and, meanwhile, they had filmed many more peaceful scenes of army life on the front.

"Especially when you know there's a traitor in the cabin across the hall that may signal any minute for you to be blown up," Blake responded to his friend's remark. "You're right there, Joe. But how's the side?"

"Coming on all right. Hurts hardly at all now. I wonder what became of those two fellows?"

"Which two?"

"Secor and Labenstein."

"Oh, I thought you meant those two German officers who tried to hire us to send some word back to their folks about them."

This had been the case: In a batch of prisoners brought in after a raid which was most successful on the part of the Americans, two captured German officers of high rank who spoke English well had offered Blake and Joe a large sum if they would send word of their fate and where they were held prisoners to an address in Berlin.

But the boys would do nothing of the sort, and reported the matter to Captain Black. The result was that the officers were searched and some valuable papers, containing some future plans of the enemy, were discovered. The officers were sent to England under a strong guard, as it was felt they were particularly dangerous.

"I suppose Secor and Labenstein are somewhere, plotting to do their worst," went on Blake. "Having gone as far as they did, they wouldn't give up easily, I imagine. I can understand Labenstein's acting as he did, but that Secor, a Frenchman, if he really is one, should plot to injure his own country—that gets me!"

"Same here! I wonder if we'll ever see him again—either of them, for that matter."

"I hope not I don't like—snakes!" exclaimed Blake.

"Yes, that's what they are—snakes in the grass," agreed Joe. "But I wonder what our next assignment will be."

"It's hard to say. Here comes an orderly now. Maybe he has some instructions."

This proved to be the case, the messenger bearing a note from Captain Black, requesting the moving picture boys to get some scenes around the camp when the soldiers were served with their daily rations.

Some German propaganda was being circulated in the United States, Captain Black explained, to the effect that the soldiers in France were being underfed and were most unhappy. It was said that large losses had taken place in their ranks through starvation.

"We want to nail that lie to the mast!" said the captain; "and I can't imagine a better way than by making some films showing the boys at their meals."

"And they are some meals, too!" exclaimed Blake, as he and his chum made ready for the task set them. "If every soldier in this war had as good grub as our boys, they'd want to keep on fighting."

Though Blake and Joe were resting at that particular time, it must not be assumed that they did much of that sort of thing. Of course they were not always on duty. Moreover, unlike the soldiers, they could do nothing after dark, during which period many raids were made on both sides. The moving picture business of taking films depended on daylight for its success. But when they were not filming peaceful scenes in and about the trenches the boys were getting views of tanks, of men drilling, of their games and sports, and now they were to get some pictures of the meals.

As Blake and Joe had remarked, they had neither heard nor seen anything of Secor or Labenstein since they came from England. The men might have been arrested, but this was hardly likely.

"Even if they were we wouldn't hear of it," said Blake. "But I hope, if they are under arrest, they'll hold them until we can tell what we know of them."

"Same here," agreed Joe. "But I guess we'll never see them again."

Before long, however, his words were recalled to him in a strange manner and under grim circumstances.

"Well, Buddy, coming to get yours?" called Private Drew, as Blake and Joe, their cameras over their shoulders, walked toward the cook wagons from which came fragrant odors.

"Haven't heard any invitations yet," returned Blake, grinning.

"Come in with us!"

"Over this way!"

"Here you are for the big feed!"

The cries came from a number of different groups of Uncle Sam's soldiers who were fighting in France. For Blake, Joe and Charlie were generally liked, and though they were not supposed to mess with the soldiers, they did so frequently, and had many a good meal in consequence.

"We're going to get records of your appetites to show the folks back home," observed Blake, as he and Joe set up the machines. "There's a report that you're gradually wasting away from lack of pie and cake."

"Watch me waste!" cried a vigorous specimen of American manhood. "Just watch me waste!" And he held aloft a big plate heaped high with good and substantial food, while, laughing, Blake and Joe made ready to get the views.

There was much fun and merriment, even though a few miles away there was war in its grimmest aspect But if one thought of that all the while, as Captain Black said, none would have the nerve and mental poise to face the guns and finally overcome the Huns.

Following the taking of the scenes around the mess hall, others were made showing the boys in khaki at bayonet practice, at the throwing of hand grenades, and other forms of war exercises.

"I guess these will do for peaceful scenes," said Captain Black, when Joe and Blake reported to him what they had accomplished. "And now do you feel equal to a little more strenuous work?"

"Yes, sir. In what way?" returned Blake.

"On the firing line again. I know you'll keep it to yourselves, but we are going to have a big engagement in a day or so. We are all primed for it and it will be on a big scale. The Government wants some films of it, if you can get them, films not so much to be shown in public as to be official records of the War Department. Do you boys feel equal to the task?"

"That's what we're here for!" exclaimed Blake.

"How about you, Duncan?" asked the captain of Joe. "Is your side all right?"

"Oh, yes! I'd never know I'd been hurt. I'm game, all right!"

"Well, it will be in a day or so. None of us knows exactly when, as those higher up don't let us into all of their secrets. Too many leaks, you know. We want to surprise Fritz if we can."

This gave the moving picture boys something further to think about and to plan for, and when they had taken the reels of exposed film, showing the dinner scenes, from their cameras, they made the machines ready for more strenuous work.

"I think I'll put an extra covering of thin sheet steel on the film boxes," said Charlie, talking the matter over with his two chums. "A stray bit of shrapnel might go through them now and make a whole reel light-struck."

"I suppose it would be a good idea," agreed Blake. "Go to it, Mac, and we'll be ready when you are."

Four days of anxious waiting followed, with the men keyed up to concert pitch, so to speak, and eager for the word to come that would send them out of the trenches and against the ranks of the Germans.

But for a long time no word came from the higher command to prepare for the assault, though many knew it was pending. Perhaps the Germans knew it, too, and that was what caused the delay. None could say.

Blake, Joe and Charlie were in readiness. They had their cameras adjusted, had plenty of fresh film, and but awaited the word that would send them from their comparatively comfortable house with the French family into the deadly trenches.

Finally the word came. Once more in the gray dawn the boys took their places with their cameras in the communicating trench, while ahead of them crouched the soldiers eager to be unleashed at the Germans.

And then they went through it all over again. There was the curtain of fire, the artillery opening up along a five-mile front with a din the boys had never heard equalled.