He turned and called to Hal:
"Is Stubbs with you?"
"No," was the reply. "Where is he?"
"I'll have him in a minute," was Chester's brief response.
Throwing himself to the ground, he crawled from behind his shelter and
wormed his way along the ground toward the prostrate form in the road,
the figure of Stubbs.
The war correspondent lay as though dead, making no move. The lad,
keeping as close to the ground as possible, so as to avoid the German
bullets flying overhead, drew closer; and, while the lad did not know
it, three other forms also were approaching closely in spite of the
hail of lead.
But these latter were making their way through the tree-tops, jumping
lightly from bough to bough. Silent as shadows they were, but their eyes
glared a fiery red and their tails switched angrily.
They were cats.
Half-starved as they were, they had trailed the troop. They had been in
the war zone long enough for their feline intelligence to tell them that
where men rode there was likely to be food. More than one dead man, left
dead upon the field, had fallen a victim to their claws and teeth.
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