The long spell of wet weather had precluded the burning away of undergrowth. There were tree tops and hill summits whence a splendid shot could be taken at unwary Americans in the lower front-line trenches and along the rising ground at the rear of the Yankee lines. Yes, it was a stretch of ground laid out for the joy of snipers. And the German sharpshooters took due advantage of this bit of luck. The whine of a high-power bullet was certain to follow the momentary exposure of any portion of khaki anatomy above or behind the parapets. And in disgustingly many instances the bullet did not whine in vain. All of which kept the newcomers from getting any excess joy out of trench life. To mitigate the annoyance there was a call for volunteer sharpshooters to scout cautiously through No Man’s Land and seek to render the boche sniping a less safe and exhilarating sport than thus far it had been. The job was full of peril, of course. For there was a more than even chance of the Yankee snipers’ being sniped by the rival sharpshooters, who were better acquainted with the ground. Yet at the first call there was a clamorous throng of volunteers. Many of these volunteers admitted under pressure that they knew nothing of scout work and that they had not so much as qualified in marksmanship. But they craved a chance at the boche. And grouchily did they resent the swift weeding-out process that left their services uncalled for. Cash Wyble was the first man accepted for the dangerous detail. And for the first time since the draft had caught him his burnt-leather face expanded into a grin that could not have been wider unless his flaring ears had been set back. With two days’ rations and a goodly store of cartridges he fared forth that night into No Man’s Land. Dawn was not yet fully gray when the first crack of his rifle was wafted back to the trenches. Then the artillery firing, which was part of the day’s work, set in. And its racket drowned the noise of any shooting that Cash might be at. Forty-eight hours passed. At dawn of the third day Cash came back to camp. He was tired and horribly thirsty; but his lantern-jawed visage was one unmarred mask of bliss. “Twelve,” he reported tersely to his captain. “At least,” he continued in greater detail, “twelve that I’m dead sure of. Nice big ones, too, some of ’em.” “Nice big ones!” repeated the captain in admiring disgust. “You talk as if you’d been after wild turkeys!”