ntil I could join you."

"Better to have it over with sharp and sudden than drag along,"
replied Jimmy. "They killed poor Baker right in front of me," he
added, naming a "bunkie" of whom he and the five Brothers were very
fond. "I might just as well have received that bullet."

"Yes. It's a queer world," mused Bob. "If it hadn't been that Franz
went out against orders and got information, we might all be dead
now."

And this was true.

Once more silence settled down over the trenches, but it was now
almost morning, and with the breaking of dawn the rain that had been a
drizzle all night settled into a steady downpour.

"Not much fighting to-day," decided Roger, when the four Brothers were
at breakfast together--and a cold breakfast at that, for there was no
fuel to heat the coffee, though word went around that the traveling
kitchens were on their way toward the trenches.

Roger was right. Each side consolidated its positions, and each seemed
waiting for what the other might do. This state of affairs continued
for three days, during which the rain lasted. Save for an occasional
artillery duel at night, precipitated often by some nervous sentry
firing his rifle, there was no actual battle.

At the first chance, when he was off duty, Jimmy secured permission to
go back to their former headquarters.

"I want to find out about Iggy if I can," he said, "and also make
inquiries about Sergeant Maxwell and that money I owe you fellows."

"You don't owe it to us!" declared Roger.

"I sure do!" was the answer. "Just as much as if I'd borrowed it from
you!" declared Jimmy. "And I'm going to pay up, too!"

He returned from his little trip much sooner than his comrades had
expected. There was a joyous light in his face as he greeted them, and
cried:

"Good news, fellows! Good news!"

CHAPTER VII

UNDER FIERCE FIRE

There were so many sorts of good news possible for Jimmy to have
brought back from the former headquarters at the rear that, for a
moment, his three chums did not know what question to put next.

The war might be over, though until the Germans were worse whipped
than they then were there would be poor satisfaction in that,
reflected Roger.

It was Bob, however, who blurted out:

"Is Iggy all right?"

"You said it!" cried Jimmy, dancing around "like a venerable ostrich,"
as Bob said afterward. "He isn't all right, exactly, for he's pretty
badly mussed up. But he's not going West, and if tha