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"What do you suppose they'll say in Camport when they hear of this day's work, fellows?" asked Billy. "Oh," answered Frank with a laugh, "they'll only say: 'It's nothing more than we expected." "They know us, don't they?" "Of course they do," broke in Tom. "We came to France to do our duty as American citizens, as well as soldiers."
Frank Sheldon, Bart Raymond, Tom Bradford and Billy Waldon had all been born and brought up in Camport, a thriving American city of about twenty-five thousand people. They had known each other from boyhood, attended the same school, played on the same baseball nine and were warm friends. Frank was the natural leader of the group.
But one foggy morning not long after, the German leaders settled the matter for the Camport strategists and struck with tremendous force at the Allied lines. Two hours before dawn the German guns opened up with a roar that shook the earth.
How the regiment sailed to France for intensive training behind the firing lines; how their transport narrowly escaped being sunk by a submarine and how the tables were turned; the singular chance by which Frank met a French colonel and heard encouraging news about his mother's property; how he thoroughly "trimmed" Rabig in a boxing bout; how the Camport boys took part in the capture of a Zeppelin; how the old Thirty-seventh finally reached the trenches; Frank's daring exploit when caught in the swirl of a German charge; these and other exciting adventures are told in the first book of this Series, entitled: "Army Boys in France; Or, From Training Camp to the Trenches."
Without waiting for a reply he hurried off, and the four Camport chums looked after him with speculation in their eyes until he was lost to view at a turn of the trench. "He's guilty all right," declared Tom with conviction. "If ever guilt looked out of a man's eyes they looked out of his," agreed Bart.
"Don't fool yourself that way," said Corporal Wilson, who had just come up and heard the remark. "Unless I lose my guess you've got something to do tonight. Didn't you tell me the other day that you understood how to handle a motorcycle?" "Why, yes," said Frank. "I've ridden one a good deal. I won a race on Camport Fair Grounds a couple of years ago."
The boys of the regiment to which the Camport boys belonged were in rather a sober mood when they gathered around their field kitchens that night and partook of the food that was served out to them. They had not lost a gun, but they had yielded ground, and a great many of their comrades would never again answer the roll call.
If he had his deserts he'd be up against the firing squad within twenty-four hours." "Easy there, Tom," counseled Frank, looking around him, for in his excitement Tom had raised his voice. "Remember I'm not dead sure. I wouldn't swear to it in a court of law." "Here comes Nick himself," remarked Bart. "The Old Nick," growled Tom. "Hello, Rabig," said Frank, as the former Camport bully came along.
And anyway we ought to be mighty thankful that the shot didn't remove some of us from the landscape as well as the kettle." "What's the big noise about?" asked a cheery voice, and they looked up to see Will Stone regarding them with a quizzical grin. The four Camport boys greeted Stone joyfully and gladly made room for him. "It's another German atrocity," grinned Billy.
"You know the way he" used to talk in Camport." "You notice that we've never seen him volunteering for any of the raiding parties," said Billy. "But that may only mean that Rabig has a yellow streak in him. It doesn't say that he's a traitor," returned Frank. "Well, maybe he isn't," conceded Tom. "But all the same it seems rather queer that he should have been picked out to guard this Heinie.
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