"Look there, Bart!" he said. "There's a man still alive. See how he's trying to get up on his elbow—and he's one of our men, too. That is, he's French—I can tell by his uniform," he added in great excitement, as the light from a bursting star shell threw a ghastly radiance over the field.
The next instant he was clambering up the side of the trench.
"Frank! Frank!" cried Bart desperately, clutching at him. "What are you doing? Where are you going? It's certain death out there!"
"I'm going, Bart," gritted Frank between his teeth as he tore away from his friend's grasp, and leaped over the top!
An instant more and he was on his hands and knees, making his way toward the stricken man who was about twenty yards distant.
Around him bullets rained. A pain shot through his shoulder as though he had been stabbed by a red hot knife, but he kept on doggedly, reached the wounded man and tried to lift him to his feet.
But the effort was futile for the man sank back with a groan. Like a flash Frank's muscular arms lifted him, threw him over his shoulder and staggering, tripping, stumbling, yet somehow keeping his feet, he reached the edge of the trench.
A dozen eager hands relieved him of his burden and then he himself tumbled in, to be caught by Bart and Billy.
What happened in the next half hour, Frank scarcely knew. The wound in his shoulder though not serious had bled freely, and his tremendous efforts had taxed his strength to the utmost.
His surprise was great when, having had his wound attended to, he was ushered into the presence of the man he had saved.