In the shell-area on the Western Front the fact that a road is quiet does not by any means guarantee that it is “nice.” But the people who really enjoy war are those who have not been there before. The pair of adventurers set boldly off down the hill. As they started, a second contribution from the howitzer battery passed over their heads, with the lazy rustle which characterizes the descent of high-angle shells, and burst in the woods opposite, fifty yards to the right of the first. “There’s another gun firing!” exclaimed Miss Lane, clasping her hands rapturously. “My, but I’m excited! C’m along, Helen!” They hurried down the road, observing with a pleasant thrill that the surface thereof was pitted with shell-holes. More experienced fire-eaters would have noted that some of these holes were of extremely recent origin—a few hours old, in fact. Once or twice they paused to collect more souvenirs—shell-fuses and empty cartridge-cases. Distances viewed across a valley are deceptive, and their stroll down the road took longer than they expected. The rain was coming down harder than ever. “We ought to hit those trenches soon,” said Miss Lane. “What are trenches like, anyway?” enquired Miss Ryker, a little peevishly. She was beginning to make heavy weather of the expedition under her cargo of crockery and expended ammunition. Miss Lane, whose acquaintance with trench warfare had been derived mainly from the Movies, made no reply. She had stopped by the roadside to read a notice-board, nailed to what was left of a tree. It said: _This road must NOT be used by troops during daylight._ She nodded her head sagely. “That’s why there is no one around,” she remarked. “What were you saying just now, Helen?” Miss Ryker had discovered a fresh grievance. “It seems to me that some of the firing has gotten _behind_ us!” she said. The girls stood still, and listened. A third American shell swung over their heads and burst in the woods opposite. Simultaneously came a sharp outburst of machine-gun fire from the right—the right rear, in fact. “Maybe we have walked into a sort of bend in the line,” suggested Frances. “They call it a salient,” she added professionally. “Why, if there aren’t some of our boys at last! There … crossing that bridge!” She was right. As she spoke, two khaki-clad figures emerged from the woods upon the opposite side of the stream below them and trotted briskly across the pontoon bridge, in single file a few yards apart. Once across, they joined forces, and began to climb the hill in a more leisurely fashion. But it was noticeable that instead of coming up the road they kept a course roughly parallel to its direction—perhaps a hundred yards away. “Why should they go hiking through that mushy long grass, wetting themselves, when there is a good road right here? Aren’t men just _children_?” observed Miss Ryker. “Perhaps they don’t know about the road,” said Miss Lane charitably, “We’ll call them. Oh—Boys!”