and he did not
venture any inquiries either as to his way or what had been going on.

Happenings in Flanders and Picardy are known in America before they are
known to the boys in Alsace. He knew there was fighting in the West and
that Fritz had poked a big bulge into the French line, for his superiors
had given him a road map with the bulge pencilled upon it so that he
might go around it and not bump his nose into it, as he had said. But he
had not expected to see such obvious signs of fighting and it made him
realize that at last he was getting into the war with a vengeance.

Instead of following the road leading northwest out of Meaux, he took
the one leading northeast up through Villers-Cotterets, intending to run
along the edge of the forest to Campiegne and then verge westward to
the billet villages northwest of Montdidier, where he was to report.

This route brought him within ten miles of the west arm of the salient,
but the way was quiet and there was no sign of the fighting as he rode
along in the woody solitude. It reminded him of his home far back in
America and of the woods where he and his scout companions had camped
and hiked and followed the peaceful pursuits of stalking and trailing.

He was thinking of home as he rode leisurely along the winding forest
road, when suddenly he was startled by a rustling sound among the trees.

"Who goes there?" he demanded in pursuance of his general instructions
for such an emergency, at the same time drawing his pistol. "Halt!"

He was the scout again now, keen, observant. But there was no answer to
his challenge and he narrowed his eyes to mere slits, peering into the
tree-studded solitude, waiting.

Then suddenly, close by him he heard that unmistakable sound, the
clanking of a chain, and accompanying it a voice saying, "Kamerad."

CHAPTER TWO

AID AND COMFORT TO THE ENEMY

Tom Slade, dispatch-rider, knew well enough what _kamerad_ meant. He had
learned at least that much of German warfare and German honor, even in
the quiet Toul sector. He knew that the German olive branch was
poisoned; that German treachery was a fine art--a part of the German
efficiency. Had not Private Coleburn, whom Tom knew well, listened to
that kindly uttered word and been stabbed with a Prussian bayonet in the
darkness of No Man's Land?

"Stand up," said Tom. "Nobody can talk to _me_ crouching down like
that."

"Ach!" said the voice in the unmistakable tone of pain. "Vot