At the same moment the Missourians ran yelling up the communication trench, threw their machine-guns up on the sand-bags and went into action.
Hicks stood petrified, staring at the foot in his hand, when Claude, clad in his Jaegers only, appeared, reached out and dragged the limp figure in by both legs.
“Here, Sergeant, help me with this to the dug-out, so I can get my clothes on before it gets too public.”
“My God, Lieutenant, I thought you was killed. What’s this for? To fool the Heinies?”
“No—that was for the home-folks that read serious novels.”
PARADISE BE DAMNED!
By
F. Scott Fitzjazzer
This story was written between 10 P. M. and 3 A. M. of one night while I was playing bridge. The Swift Set paid me enough for it to recoup what I lost at bridge and leave me the price of a diamond tiara and two theatre tickets. The movie rights brought me $60,000. It is probably the worst story I ever wrote—though, for that distinction, it has many rivals.