"This is the life," chaffed Tom. "You fellows have a picnic here away back of the lines, while we chaps in the front line do all the work and stop all the bullets."
"G'wan, you doughboys," retorted a gunner good-naturedly. "If we're alive here after eight days, the orders are to shoot us for loafing."
A little further on, they came upon a myriad of tanks of all descriptions. There were "baby" tanks, "whippets," "male" and "female," all with different functions to perform during a battle. Just as in the navy there are vessels of all sizes from a light scout to a super-dreadnought, so already this arm of the service was developing various grades, each to do some special work for which the others were not so well adapted.
"See how they're hidden," said Frank, as he pointed to a very forest of bushes and branches that extended above the array of tanks.
"That's to keep the Boche aviators guessing," observed Bart. "They'd give their eyes if they could only spy out where these fellows are being massed."
"I heard one of the fellows say that the tanks travel only at night so that the Boches can't track them," said Tom.
"And see what a raft of them have been got together here," said Billy. "I tell you, fellows, there's something big going to be pulled off before long."
"Say, boys, see who's here!" exclaimed Frank, and they turned to see Will Stone coming toward them with a broad smile of welcome on his bronzed face.