cious, and what the outcome would be the soldier could only guess.

"But there won't be any guesswork if I leave 'em here for the Huns," he
reasoned. "I've got to help 'em back--but how?"

The Germans, in a counter-offensive, were striving to regain some of the
lost ground, and, for the moment, were driving before them the French
and American forces. Back rushed the advance lines to their supporting
columns, and Drew, seeing some of his own messmates, signaled to them,
for he could not talk with the helmet on.

Fortunately his chums of the trenches understood, and while some of them
caught up the unconscious boys and started with them to the rear, others
saved the moving picture machines.

And then, just as it seemed that the Germans would overtake them and
dispose of the whole party, there came a rush of helmet-protected
Americans who speedily dispersed those making the counter-attack,
pursuing them back to the very trenches which they had left not long
before.

The fight went on in that gas-infested territory, a grim fight,
desperate and bloody, but in which the Allies were at last successful,
though Blake and his two chums saw nothing of it.

"They're in a bad way," the surgeon said, when he examined them soon
after Drew and his friends brought them in. "I don't know whether we can
save them."

But prompt action, coupled with American ingenuity and the knowledge
that had been gained from the experience of French and British surgeons
in treating cases of gas poisoning, eventually brought the moving
picture boys back to the life they had so nearly left.

It was several days, though, before they were out of danger, and by that
time the French and Americans had consolidated the gains it cost them so
much to make, so that the place where the three boys had been overcome
was now well within the Allied lines.

"Well, what happened to us?" asked Joe, when he and his chums were able
to leave the hospital.

"You were gassed," explained Private Drew, who had had a slight attack
himself. "Didn't you hear me yelling at you to put on your helmets?"

"Yes, and we started to do it," said Blake. "But that stuff works like
lightning."

"Glad you found that out, anyhow," grimly observed the soldier. "The
next time you hear the warning, 'Gas!' don't stop to think, just grab
your helmet. And don't wait longer than to feel a funny tickling in your
nose, as if you wanted to sneeze but couldn't. Most likely that'll be
gas, to