Another shot accompanied Jimmy's hoarse exclamation, shouted in a perfect frenzy of loathing. Out there in the stillness of the morning, Jimmy had come upon the thing which will forever brand the Germans as fiends incarnate. Half a dozen Boches were about to crucify an American soldier.
Looking down, his eyes had come to rest on the barn. Grouped about the closed door were half a dozen German soldiers. He caught a glimpse of a hatless, olive-drab figure, spread-eagled against the door. He saw the gleam of bayonets—then he shouted and in the same instant fired his revolver.
Intent on their fiendish work, the crucifiers had paid no attention to the purr of the aeroplane's engine. They were not looking for an enemy plane so far behind their own lines.
At Jimmy's first shot a Boche threw up his arms and dropped. Instantly the other five whirled and left their victim, whose outspread arms were bound to two staples hastily driven into the door. Then another Hun clutched his breast and pitched forward. A third fell, shot through the head.
Always cowardly when cornered, two of the remaining trio took one look at the plane and ran. Only one stood his ground. Bayonet discarded, he pulled an automatic pistol and opened fire on Jimmy.
A shot from Voissard's revolver pierced the Hun's left arm. Jimmy fired again. He thought he had missed his man, and was about to try again when he saw the Boche sway, take a tottering step forward, and collapse forward in a heap on the ground.
The plane having rolled along a few yards and come to a standstill, Jimmy and the aviator leaped out of it and ran to the rescue of the trussed Sammy.
"My poor fellow——"
Sheer amazement checked the expression of sympathy that welled to Cousin Emile's lips. His young friend Blaise was laughing and crying and hugging the man fastened to the door as though quite bereft of his senses.