nd 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