One favourite dodge was to take out with them a tin can fastened to a long string. When they got near the Prussian outposts they made this go tingle tangle along the ground. Then cautious heads would peep out; more tangle tingle from the tin can, until the sentinels jump up and blaze away at the weird thing that startles them in the dark. Their fire has been drawn, and Hitter’s men have the outpost at their mercy. They either shoot them or bring them into Metz as prisoners. At length Marshal Bazaine heard of Hitter’s prowess, and sent for him, wanting to decorate him; but Hitter was sensitive, and thought he ought to have been decorated weeks ago. He came reluctantly. “My man, I have heard of your doings--your clever work at night--and in the name of France I give you this decoration to wear.” “I don’t want it, Marshal. Pray excuse me, if you please.” “Nonsense, my fine fellow. I insist on your acceptance of the honour.” “Oh! very well,” said Hitter, “if you insist, I suppose I must; but, by your leave, I shall wear it on my back--and very low down, too.” The Marshal glared at Hitter, turned red, and ordered him out. As the siege went on the poor horses got thinner and thinner. Their coats stood out in the wet weather rough and bristly; often they staggered and fell dead in the streets. They were soon set upon, and in a short time flesh, bones, and hide had vanished, and only a little pool of blood remained behind to tell where some hungry citizens had snatched a good dinner.