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

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

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

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

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

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

The boches farthest to the left, in the blind rush, fouled with the
wires. German snipers, from behind the Hun parapets, opened fire. A
minute earlier the night had been still as the grave. Now it fairly
vibrated with clangor. All because one rookie's nerves had been less
staunch than his courage, and because that same rookie had not only had
his hand stepped on in the dark, but had encountered something swirling
and hairy when he grabbed for the soldier who had stepped on him!

The American lieutenant, at the onset of the clamor, sprang to his
feet, whipping out his pistol; his dry lips parted in a command to
charge--a command which, naturally, would have reduced his eleven men
and himself to twelve corpses or to an equal number of mishandled
prisoners within the next few seconds. But a big hand was clapped
unceremoniously across the young officer's mouth, silencing the
half-spoken suicidal order.

Sergeant Mahan's career in the regular army had given