To the right and left, every now and then, machine guns broke forth in swift, rapping fire. When the fire was from the positions opposite, the bullets snapped in the air like the crackings of a whip. The white stars went up and down. Great guns thumped occasionally; now and then a high shell whined overhead; now and then the burst of an exploding shell sounded before or behind. It was a quiet night; but to the new battalion it was full of thrills. The sentries never took their eyes from the mysterious region beyond their wire. Every blob of blackness beyond their defenses set their pulses racing and sent their hands to their weapons. Dick Starkley and Frank Sacobie stood shoulder to shoulder on the fire step for hours, staring with all their eyes and listening with all their ears. Hiram Sill sat at their feet and talked about how he felt on this very particular occasion. His friends paid no attention to him. "This is the proudest moment of my life," he said. "We are historic figures, boys--and that's a thing I never hoped to be. In my humble way, I stand for more than George Washington did. This is a bigger war than George ever dreamed of, and I have a bigger and better reason for fighting the Huns than Gen. Washington ever had for fighting the fool Britishers." "Did you see that?" asked Dick of Sacobie. "Over in the edge of their wire. There! Look quick now! Is it a man?" "Looks like a man, but it's been there right along and ain't moved yet," said Frank. "Maybe it's a stump." Just then Lieut. Scammell came along. He got up on the fire step and, directed by Dick, trained his glass on the black thing in the edge of the enemy's wire. A German star shell gave him light. "That's a German--a dead one," he said. "I've been told about him. There was a bit of a scrap over there three nights ago, and that is one of the scrappers." Hiram forgot about Gen. Washington and mounted the fire step to have a look. He borrowed the officer's glass for the purpose. "Do his friends intend to leave him out there much longer, sir?" he asked. "If they do, it's a sure sign of weakness. They're scart." "They are scart, right enough--but I bet they wouldn't be if they knew this bit of trench was being held now by a green battalion," replied Mr. Scammell. "They'd be over for identifications if they knew." "Let them come!" exclaimed Private Sill. "I bet a dollar they wouldn't stay to breakfast--except a few who wouldn't want any." At that moment a rifle cracked to the right of them, evidently from their own trench and not more than one hundred yards away. It was followed close by a spatter of shots, then the smashing bursts of grenades, more musketry and the _rat-tat-tat_ of several machine guns. Bullets snapped in the air. Lights trailed up from both lines. Dull thumps sounded far away, and then came the whining songs of high-flying shells. Flashes of fire astonished the eye, and crashing reports stunned the ear.