With a beating heart, he held his breath and seized his gas-mask, his fingers fumbling in his haste as he put it on, wondering, as he did so, that he had seen no green or yellow fumes arise. [Illustration: _British Official Sketch_ BRINGING UP FOOD FOR THE FIRING LINE THROUGH A POISON GAS CLOUD.] [Illustration: _Courtesy of "Illustrated London News."_ THE BATTLE OF DEMON FACES FLINGING BOMBS IN A MIST OF GREEN DEATH] One minute, two minutes passed, and no fumes arose. Cautiously the boy lifted a corner of the mask and gave the merest little sniff. He smelt nothing. It was a false alarm! Profoundly grateful over his escape, Horace decided that by some happy accident, the shell which had fallen had been a gas shell, but, by some accident of manufacture, it had escaped being filled. Evidently, he was born lucky, he thought. Had it been a high-explosive shell, it would have blown him to atoms; had the shell been filled with gas, he would have been poisoned before he had time to put on his mask. Five minutes passed. Then the boy noticed, on the under side of his legs, just where his weight touched the edge of the chair, a curious prickling sensation, as though he had been stung with nettles. Unconsciously, he rubbed the place with his hand. That instant, wherever the weight of his hand had been, the prickling began. His hand, too, began to smart. Something was happening. A vague discomfort spread over the skin of his entire body. He blinked his eyes. The sight was dim and blurred. He could not see clearly the holes in which to put his telephone plugs and, when he picked one up, his fingers were burning so that he let them fall. Something was happening. His flesh felt raw about his neck where the collar touched it, and where his skin had touched the chair, fire seemed to be eating him. A black and purple light was blinding him, heavy fingers pressed on his eyeballs. Gropingly he managed to find the wire to headquarters. "I'm going blind," he mumbled, in a thick voice he could not recognize as his own, "send relief." Relief came half an hour later and the men found Horace on the floor, his clothing half-torn from his body and his shrill screams sunk into hard, husky moanings. The stretcher-bearers took him to the nearest dressing station. One look was enough for the examining doctor. "Put on rubber gloves," he said to his assistant, "take off every stitch he has and burn the clothes. Don't let them touch anything. Burn the canvas of that stretcher. Get the 'phone instruments out of that shelter and burn the shelter. Tell the operator who is there now to change his clothes and burn them, too, and tell him to come here for treatment, quickly!" "Why, Doctor, what is it?" the assistant asked.