At first nothing resulted from our thorough search, but Munsey’s eye lighted on an Algerian serge lying in the corner of the room, and almost at the same time I noticed some bricks in the chimney that seemed to be loose.  An old table in the middle of the room I pulled over to the chimney, tugged at some of the brick that I had noticed, and the whole thing caved in, part of a heliograph outfit falling out.  The old fellow made a dart for the door, but was peremptorily intercepted.  “Damn you, stay where you are!” I pulled out the rest of the stuff; there was a complete heliograph apparatus, and a little red cap, such as the Algerians wear, satisfying us both that the man doing the work used the uniform of an Algerian.

On leaving the room, carrying the stuff with us and going down stairs, we saw a box against the wall and I heard a funny noise from it as if it contained something alive.  I pulled it out and found it full of pigeons.  “Who owns these?” I asked.

“An Algerian soldier left them there,” he answered.

We then examined the cellar and entire basement, but found nothing further.  We took the old fellow over to the gendarme who immediately took charge of him, and returned to the battery where we imparted the news of our find.  It was the consensus of opinion that the spy was the farmer himself, and that the Algerian uniform was a blind.  We were chatting away, discussing the matter, when the shells commenced flying as thick as peas in a pod; so swift and smashing was the fusillade that for awhile I thought hell’s gate had opened wide.  In less than no time one of our guns was knocked out and, getting a “Stand to!” we replied as fast as our legs and arms and heads would work.

The excellent quality of the work that Fritz did here made the fellows unanimous that his information came from the farmer.  Presently the duel cooled down and we resumed our chat.

About a hundred yards off from the farmhouse where we had found the heliograph and Algerian uniform, was a windmill of the kind commonly seen in the farmhouses of the country, with large wings, and it happened that while firing, one of the boys, Boxer, noticed that the mill was going around in an irregular fashion,—­going first one way and then another, and then stopping, and he called our attention to it and we all noticed it, and almost simultaneously with our observation of the mill, four shells came over, knocking another of our guns into uselessness and wiping out the crew, and after we got “Stand down!” and had cleaned up, Boxer suggested that we go over and see what was in the windmill.

Together we went, going first to the house, and found the children crying with fright; some of them tried to tell us something, but we couldn’t make out what they were saying.  We crossed over to the windmill and a phenomenon indeed met our eyes,—­the wheel was turning in the opposite direction from that in which the wind was blowing.  We started up the steps and—­Ping!  Ping! and Boxer fell with an oath and a bullet in his leg.  I assisted him to the farmhouse and then scooted over and communicated with the O.C.  I also informed a French battery that had been terrifically shelled.