f slaughter was in every
face.

"I do not think there will be any poison gas," shouted the Alsatian
corporal, whose name was Aristide Puzzeau. "The wind is in the wrong
quarter, but you never know what these Boches are up to."

He handed him a gas helmet, which he took from a dead comrade, and
without waiting for any thanks, Corporal Puzzeau pursued his way.

Dug-out after dug-out he bombed, and when his supply was exhausted he
unslung his rifle with its long, thin bayonet, Dennis following upon his
heels.

The barrage fire, playing a couple of hundred yards in rear of the
German parados, effectually kept the enemy's supports in check, and
Dennis wisely possessed himself of a steel helmet, for the shrapnel had
a habit of raining down on friend and foe alike, but after they had gone
some distance in a northerly direction, they found that the enemy had
recovered from the first surprise, and a strong counter-attack was
forcing a company of poilus back.

At first it was difficult to find where the enemy sprang from, until
Puzzeau located the mouth of a subterranean dug-out from which they
poured in rushes, and, crouching down, he waited at one side of the
opening like a terrier at a rat-hole, Dennis standing beside him with a
revolver in his hand.

"Wait, do you hear that?" said Puzzeau. "There are plenty more of them
inside," and they waited.

"Good morning, my pig!" said Puzzeau, lunging forward, and the sergeant
reeled against the trench boards.

Almost before he could recover his weapon the opening was filled with a
surge of men, and Dennis emptied a revolver into the middle of them.

"That is the style!" grunted the corporal approvingly, as a dull shout
boomed from the dug-out and those behind paused. "If there were only
half a dozen of us here now, or, better still, a bomb-thrower," and,
lifting up his powerful voice, he bellowed to a man he knew: "Rabot,
surely there are some bombs left?"

"That is all very well," replied Rabot. "I have been sent myself for
reinforcements. Do you know every officer of our company is down, and
the men are falling back?"

"There is something yonder that will serve our purpose," cried Dennis,
pointing to an ugly grey muzzle behind an iron loophole on the parados.

It was almost opposite to the door of the dug-out, and before the
Alsatian knew what he was doing, Dennis had scrambled up to the
machine-gun emplacement and vanished. The next moment his head appeared
round on