“I want Bob to draw his fire, if he can,” explained Ned. “I’ll be in reserve to shoot as soon as I see the flash. If I miss you take him. It’s 131 got to be nip and tuck, and we’ll have to make it a snap shot, for he’ll drop back into the hole after he fires.”
“Go to it!” advised the tall lad. “I’m with you.”
Quickly they made their preparations. While Ned and Jerry went a little way down the trench, Bob took off his helmet and put it on the end of his gun. He then awaited the signal from Ned.
“Show your tin hat!”
Slowly, and simulating as much as possible a soldier raising his head above the top line of the trench, Bob elevated the helmet. Hardly had he done so when there came a sharp crack, and the helmet spun around on the point of the bayonet as a juggler spins a plate on the end of his walking stick.
“Right O!” cried Ned, and, almost in the same detonation as the firing of the German’s gun, Ned’s rifle spoke. The clump of bushes seemed to spout up into the air, blown by some underground explosion, and then a figure was seen to half leap from what must have been an excavation.
“You got him!” cried Jerry.
“Yes,” assented Ned, as he lowered his gun. “You won’t have to shoot, old man. Fritz won’t do any more pot-hunting.” 132
So that was the end of one German sharpshooter.
The three chums were congratulated by their relief, which came soon after that, on ridding that part of this particular sector of a menace that had long been in evidence. More than one American had been killed or wounded either by this sharpshooter or by one who had adopted the same tactics, and Ned, Bob and Jerry had well earned the thanks of their comrades.