the aiming of the gun, which was making a noise like a riveting machine, only faster and louder.  It had a big round cylinder for a barrel, and the men were feeding it with long strips of cartridges out of a box, and were so intent on the process that they paid no attention whatever to Jimmie.  He stood and stared, spellbound.  For these creatures seemed not men, but hairy monsters out of caves-ragged, plastered with mud, grimed and smoke-blackened, with their faces drawn, their teeth shining like the teeth of angry dogs.  Jimmie forgot all about the enemy, he saw only this roaring, flame-vomiting machine and the men who were a part of it.

Suddenly one of the men leaped up, a little hairier and a little blacker than the rest, and shouted, “Ah derry-air!  Ah derry-air!” And the gun stopped roaring and vomiting flame, and the men laid hold and began to tug and strain to draw it back.  The leader continued exhorting them; until suddenly an amazing thing happened—­right in the midst of his shouting, the whole of his mouth and lower jaw disappeared.  You did not see what became of it—­it just vanished into nothingness, and there in the place of it was a red cavern, running blood.  The man stood with his startled eyes shining white in his black and hairy face, and gurgling noises coming out—­as if he thought he was still shouting, or could if he tried harder.

The others paid not the least attention to this episode; they continued tugging at the gun.  And would you believe it, the man with no mouth and jaw fell to helping again!  The wheels struck a rise in the ground, and he waved his hands in impotent excitement, and then rushed at Jimmie, exposing to the horrified little machinist the full ghastliness of that red cavern running blood.

Jimmie tried his magic formula:  “Botteree Normb Cott.”  But the man waved his hands frantically and grabbed Jimmie by the arm—­the very incarnation of that Monster of Militarism which the little machinist had been dodging for four years!  He pushed Jimmie towards the gun, and the other men shouted:  “Asseestay!” So of course there was nothing for Jimmie to do but lay hold and tug with the rest.

Presently they got the wheels to moving, and rolled the thing up the ridge.  A wagon came bumping through the woods, and the men at the gun gave a gasp which was meant to be a cheer, and one of them laid hold of Jimmie again, crying:  “Portay!  Portay!” He dragged out a heavy box and loaded it into Jimmie’s arms and carried another himself, and so in a few moments the machine-gun was drumming, and Jimmie went on carrying boxes.  The men who were driving the wagon leaped upon the horses and drove away; and still Jimmie carried boxes, blindly, desperately.  Was it because he was afraid of the little French demon who was shouting at him?  No, not exactly, because when he went back with a box he saw the little demon suddenly double up like a jack-knife and fall forward.  He did not make a sound, he did not even kick; he lay with his face in the dirt and leaves—­and Jimmie ran back for another box.