Don laughed.

"The same here up to a minute or so ago," he confessed. "But honestly, Dunny, somehow, my curiosity has been excited a whole lot by your story about the château."

"I'm glad to hear it," chuckled the art student.

The road in places was deeply rutted and worn by the passage of countless vehicles, but the driver, skilled in the art of avoiding the bad portions, took his car down a gentle slope at quite a lively pace. At length number eight once more began making an ascent, and it was not very long before the summit of the hill was reached. Turning sharply off on a little spur lying at right angles to the main road, the ambulanciers suddenly came in sight of two cars parked close together.

"Here we are at the outpost!" cried Dunstan, quite gaily. "Hello, fellows! What's been going on?"

The door of an abri, or underground shelter near the cars opened, revealing a glare of electric light inside. Four young Americans hastily emerged, and there was a lively series of salutations. Right behind the boys came three French army surgeons dressed in white.

"Ferd Blane and Jim Roland had a couple of blessés,"[2] called one of the Red Cross drivers. "Meet them?"

"You bet—tooting it along at the dickens of a pace, too."

"What happened?"

"A marmite[3] dropped into the door of a dugout in the first-line trenches."

"Hard luck for some poor poilus!" murmured Don.

With a bit of clever maneuvering he brought his car alongside of the other two, then both he and Dunstan sprang to the ground.

"The Boches have been presenting us with some pretty heavy salutes this morning." The same young chap as before, speaking very cheerfully, imparted the information. "And if you don't believe it"—he smiled—"I can make you acquainted with the sight of several new and jolly big shell-holes."

"I told Don that something was happening in this direction, Ravenstock," replied Dunstan. "The worst for a long time, eh?"

"Well, rather. 

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