red cause of humanity.
The prayer closed with a simple petition that they in the battalion
might be found worthy of a humble place in that great company.

As they were repeating together the prayer "Our Father," the notes of
the reveille sounded shrilly over the camp.

"Go out, Hobbs, for a minute," said Barry after they had risen from
their prayer. He knew well that Cameron would want a few minutes with
him alone.

"Sir," said the boy, and his voice was quiet and steady, "I'm not going
to try to thank you, but I believe I can 'carry on' now."

"You bet you can," said Barry, gripping his hand. "You bet you can! It's
the point of view after all, old man, isn't it? For ourselves it doesn't
matter, but we have got to think of the boys, and we have got to stay
with the game."

Eighteen hours later the relief was completed, and the battalion was
in its place in the line, all but the sentries asleep in their flimsy
dugouts and behind their rotten parapets.

An hour later, Barry, who was sleeping with the M. O. in the regimental
aid post, was wakened from a dead sleep by the M. O.

"There's something doing out there," he said. "Listen!"

There was a quick succession of sharp explosions.

"Bombs!" said the M. O.

The explosions were followed by the rat-tat-tat--tat-tat--tat-tat-tat of
the machine guns. Instantly they were both on their feet and out in the
trench.

"I guess Fritzie is trying to put something over on us, being our first
night," said the M. O. "I'll get my boys out."

He ran to the adjoining dugout, where his corporal and stretcher bearers
were sleeping, roused them and sent them up the trench. There was
the sound of subdued voices and of quick marching feet along the
communication trench a few yards away. They stood together listening for
a few minutes.

"I'm going," said Barry, hurrying off in the direction of the sound.
"Come on."

"Captain Dunbar," called the M. O. sharply, "my place is here, and I
think this is where you will be most useful as well. They will bring the
wounded to us right here."

In a few minutes all was still again, except for the machine guns, which
still kept up their incessant tattoo.

The M. O. was correct in his forecast. In a few minutes down the
communication trench came a wounded man walking, jubilant in spite of
his wounds.

"Fritzie tried to put one over on us," he exclaimed, while the doctor
was dabbing with iodine and tying up his wounded arm, "but I think