"Hello," the Major said, "operator, connect me with Milwaukee." Another wait---- "Hello, Milwaukee, this is Larson. I'm talking from Hamburg. I'm leaving this post with a deck of cards and a runner. If you want me you can get me at Coney Island or Hinky Dink's. Wurtzburger will sit in here." "Some code, Major," Lincoln Eyre, correspondent, said. "What does a pack of cards indicate?" [Illustration: GRAVE OF FIRST AMERICAN KILLED IN FRANCE Translation: Here Lie the First Soldiers of the Great Republic of the United States of America, Fallen on French Soil for Justice and for Liberty, November 3rd, 1917] "Why, anybody who comes out here when he doesn't have to is a funny card," the Major replied, "and it looks as if I have a pack of them to-night. Fritz gets quite a few things that go over our wires and we get lots of his. All are tapped by induction. "Sometimes the stuff we get is important and sometimes it isn't. Our wire tapping report last night carried a passage something like this:--The German operator at one post speaking to the operator at another said: "'Hello, Herman, where did that last shell drop?' "Second operator replied, 'It killed two men in a ration party in a communicating trench and spilt all the soup. No hot food for you to-night, Rudolph.' "Herman replying: 'That's all right. We have got some beer here.' "Then there was a confusion of sounds and a German was heard talking to some one in his dugout. He said: "'Hurry, here comes the lieutenant! Hide the can!' "That's the way it goes," added the Major, "but if we heard that the society editor of the _Fliegende Blaetter_ and half a dozen pencil strafers were touring the German front line, we'd send 'em over something that would start 'em humming a hymn of hate. If they knew I was joy riding a party of correspondents around the diggin's to-night, they might give you something to write about and cost me a platoon or two. You're not worth it. Come on." Our party now numbered nine and we pushed off, stumbling through uneven lanes in the centre of dimly lit ruins. According to orders, we carried gas masks in a handy position. This sector had a nasty reputation when it comes to that sample of Teutonic culture. Fritz's poison shells dropped almost noiselessly and, without a report, broke open, liberating to enormous expansion the inclosed gases. These spread in all directions, and, owing to the lowness and dampness of the terrain, the poison clouds were imperceptible both to sight or smell. They clung close to the ground to claim unsuspecting victims. "How are we to know if we are breathing gas or not?" asked the Philadelphia correspondent, Mr. Henri Bazin. "That's just what you DON'T know," replied the Major. "Then when will we know it is time to adjust our masks?" Bazin persisted. "When you see some one fall who has breathed it," the Major said. "But suppose we breathe it first?" "Then you won't need a mask," the Major replied, "You see, it's quite simple."