From his position on his prisoner Greg fired coolly as often as he could do so without endangering a French comrade.  He longed to rush in closer, but did not intend to let his prisoner get away.  Only one German got close enough to thrust at Holmes, who shot him through the heart before the bayonet lunge could be made.

What was left of the first and second waves was being beaten back.  Major Wells, Prescott and Noll Terry leaped to the parapet with two French soldiers in their section to beat back the foe.

Just then a third wave arrived.  The fighting became brisker.  Dick Prescott felt a weight against his head.  He staggered dizzily, felt arms clutch at him, and had only a hazy notion of what followed.

The Germans went back, carrying a few prisoners with them.  A minute later the enemy barrage lifted.

“You may get up now,” Greg admonished his captive, as he leaped to his feet.

“You’ve accounted for one of the enemy,” smiled Captain Ribaut, as he came up.

“Captured him at the first pop out of the box,” Holmes declared proudly.  “I told him to lie still, and he surely did.  I’d have hurt him if he had tried to get away.”

“How did you take him?” Ribaut asked, kneeling beside the still man.

“Threw him with an old football tackle.”

“The Hun’s neck is broken,” reported the French captain, raising the enemy’s head and letting it fall.

“What’s that?” Greg demanded astonished.  “Say, you’re right, aren’t you?  And to think of all the good fighting I missed through holding on to that ‘prisoner’!  Dick will tease the life out of me!  By the way, where is he?”

“I thought he went this way,” Ribaut answered.  “We must find him.  I hope he wasn’t hurt.”

Thoroughly alarmed Greg wheeled and darted along the trench, looking for his chum.  Then he raced back, going off in the opposite direction.

“Prescott isn’t here!” he gasped, and sprang up at the parapet.

“Here!  Don’t do that,” Major Wells called to him, in a low voice.

But there was no stopping Holmes.  Bending low he raced along in front of the trench, looking for the body, dead or alive, of his chum.

Dick, however, was not to be found.  Greg continued the search desperately.

Had the Germans sent up flares just then, and turned on their machine guns, Greg would have made an inevitable mark.

Captain Ribaut, more practical, sent a French corporal through the nearby sections for word of Captain Prescott.

“Captain Holmes, return to the trench,” Major Wells ordered, in a hoarse whisper.

So Greg obeyed, in time almost to bump into Captain Ribaut.

“Four men from this platoon are missing, and presumably were captured by the enemy,” said that officer.  “I much fear that Captain Prescott was also taken away by the enemy.”

“What?  Captured by the Huns?” Greg demanded, divided between amazement and consternation.  “Dick captured?  Let me lead a force over to the enemy line to bring him back!”