“A French flyer!” cried one.
It was overhead. It paused in its flight, circled. A tiny black thing hurtled down. The side wall of Hans Schmidt’s house vanished. In a moment more there was no house—only a heap of smoking ruins. Amid fused wires a thing that had been a man, in the uniform of a general, dragged itself, shrieking, till it died.
“The smoke!” cried an officer. “It was a signal! Headquarters was betrayed!”
“Fools!” cried Hans Schmidt, as they turned on him. “The arm I left at Gravelotte carried a French chassepôt! Vive la France! Vive Alsace—jamais plus Elsass! Vive la rep——”
A revolver spat in his face. But as he lay his staring eyes were turned to the west, to a monoplane that was flying home to France.
THE BAD MAN
By Harry C. Goodwin
“Prisoner to the bar,” called the Clerk of the Court.
The prisoner came forward, closely followed by a dog, which, because it had been evidence during the trial, had become known as Exhibit A. In one hand the man held what might have been a hat when new. The other hand hung at his side so the dog could reach up and give it an affectionate lick now and then—when the man needed sympathy and encouragement.
In answer to questions put, the prisoner said he was John Brent, twenty-seven years old, and his mother’s name was Mary.