Private Drew gave one look at the place where the German missile had fallen, not ten feet away, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he cried: 

“It’s only a dud!”

“What’s that?” asked Joe.

“Shell that didn’t explode,” answered the soldier.  “The Fritzes have fired a lot of them lately.  Guess their ammunition must be going back on them.  It’s only a dud!”

He was about to pass on, and the moving picture boys were going to resume their making of films, when another scream and whine like the first came, but seemingly nearer.

Instinctively all four looked up, and saw something flashing over their heads.  They could feel the wind of the shell, for that is what it was, and then the chance shot from the German gun fell about fifty feet behind the group.

The next instant there was a tremendous explosion, and Blake and the others felt themselves being tossed about and knocked down as by a mighty wind.

CHAPTER XVIII

TRENCH LIFE

Blake was the first to scramble to his feet, rolling out from beneath a pile of dirt and stones that had been tossed on him as the shell heaved up a miniature geyser and covered him with the debris.  Then, after a shake, such as a dog gives himself when he emerges from the water, and finding himself, as far as he could tell, uninjured, he looked to his companions.

Private Drew was staggering about, holding his right hand to his head, and on his face was a look of grim pain.  But it passed in an instant as he cried to Blake: 

“Hurt Buddy?”

“I don’t seem to be,” was the answer, given during a lull in the bombardment and firing.  “But I’m afraid——­”

He did not finish the sentence, but looked apprehensively at his prostrate chums.  Both Joe and Charlie lay motionless, half covered with dirt.  One camera had been upset and the tripod was broken.  The other, which Blake had been operating, seemed intact.

“Maybe they’re only knocked out.  That happens lots of times,” said Drew.  “We’ll have a look.”

“But you’re hurt yourself!” exclaimed Blake, looking at a bloody hand the soldier removed from his head.

“Only a scratch, Buddy!  A piece of the shell grazed me.  First I thought it had taken me for fair, but it’s only a scratch.  If I don’t get any worse than that I’m lucky.  Now to have a look at your bunkies.”

Charles Anderson seemed to need little looking after, for he arose to his feet, appearing somewhat dazed, but not hurt, as far as was evidenced.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Just a little bit of a compliment from our friend Fritz,” answered Drew.  “That was a real shell—­no dud—­but it exploded far enough away from us not to do an awful lot of damage.  That is, unless your other bunkie is worse hurt.”

“I’m afraid he is,” observed Blake, for Joe had not yet moved, and dirt covered him thickly.