down where you are! Some one will come for you presently. We've got 'em on the run, but they may sweep this place with machine guns again. Lie still where you are!"

Jimmy had sense enough to obey, and presently he became aware of the fact that the firing in his immediate neighborhood was growing less. In a few minutes it seemed to die away altogether, and it was not long after that before two men came along with a stretcher.

"Here's a live one!" the leader cried, as he caught sight of Jimmy, who cautiously raised his head.

"Hurt much?" the second stretcher bearer asked.

"Don't know," was Jimmy's laconic answer. "Wait until I stand up and see."

But as soon as he tried to get on his feet he felt so weak and dizzy that he would have fallen had not one of the men caught him.

"I guess it's a first-aid station for yours, old man," was the grim comment. And Jimmy shut his eyes.

When he opened them again it was to find himself lying on a sort of table, with a doctor bending over him.

"How do you feel?" asked the surgeon.

"Oh, sort of—sort of——" remarked Jimmy weakly.

"You'll do," was the reply. "Got a nasty knock on the head, but your skull isn't damaged—just a scalp wound. We'll wash you up a bit and send you back. Here, orderly, some water and bandages."

Jimmy closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. The mere touching of the wound on his head, to wash and bandage it, was most painful, but he did not utter a sound. Then he seemed to doze off, and when again full consciousness came to him it was to open his eyes in a temporary hospital. He was lying on a cot under a screen of bushes—a camouflaged place, to prevent, if possible, the Huns from dropping bombs from airships on this oasis of mercy.

And it was while lying on the cot, feeling more comfortable now that his head was bandaged, that Jimmy saw a squad of soldiers from the signal corps passing along the road. They had been ordered to the front to establish better communications, now that the German raid had been repulsed and the Boches were being forced to retreat.

As Jimmy looked at two men in the signal squad carrying a black box, which he recognized as one containing part of a wireless outfit, Jimmy felt a queer sensation.

"Why, I know those two fellows!" he told himself, as his eyes followed the marching twain carrying the black box. "I know them, though this is only the second time I've seen them, as far as I can tell. The other time was in the dugout. Those are the two army fellows who were talking to the two civilians. And now to find them in the signal corps! What does it mean?"

CHAPTER V
BATTLING ONWARD

Well might Sergeant Jimmy ask himself that question. For a moment he feared lest the injury to his head had caused his brain to wander so that he "saw things." But as he looked about on other sights—noted wounded men being brought in, saw fresh fighters rushing up to the front, to be ready if called on—and when he again looked toward the marching squad of the signal corps Jimmy felt sure that his brain was normal.

And there was no doubt, in his mind, of what he saw. He looked again at the two doughboys who had attracted his attention. They were in strong sunlight, and Jimmy was sure he could not be mistaken.

"They're the same two who were in the dugout talking to the two men in civilian clothes," murmured the wounded lad. "And those two civilians might be almost anyone. I only hope they weren't German spies! That would be fierce—to have two of our men meeting German spies secretly. But hold on—wait a minute. There may be another angle or twist to this game."

Jimmy raised himself on his elbow and looked after the disappearing signal corps squad. The two men carrying the black electrical box were in the rear now.

"They're the same two—no question of that," decided Jimmy. "But I may be wrong in thinking they were having a secret meeting with spies. Those civilians may be spies, but I don't believe any of our soldiers would be in any underhand scheme with them. Maybe they were laying pipes to capture the spies, or even bag bigger game. I guess that was it. Hang it! I wish I could get up and follow them. I'd like to have a talk with those fellows!"

But when Jimmy tried to sit up he found how weak he really was. The blow on the head had put him out of the fighting for the time being.

"Anything I can do for you, old man?" asked a Salvation Army worker, coming along just then. He had been going about giving hot soup to such of the injured as could take it, and now it was Jimmy's turn.

"Yes, I would like a bit," answered Jimmy Blaise to this rough and ready angel of mercy in the guise of an unshaven Salvation Army man. "That's great!" murmured Jimmy, as the soup brought new life to him.

He felt so much revived that a few minutes later, when an orderly came past and stopped beside Jimmy, the Khaki Boy began a conversation.

"Is the signal corps ordered to any special place?" he asked.

"Oh, no, just out on general work," was the answer. "The Germans shot away some of our telegraph lines, and they're going to repair 'em, I guess. Wish I was with 'em, but I can't be," and he sighed.

"Like that sort of work?" asked Jimmy.

"You bet! I'm a telephone repair man back home, and I was in the signal corps until I got a wound that put me out. I'm getting better, and I'll soon be able to chuck this orderly berth, put on my spurs and take my pliers again."

"Know anyone in that signal corps bunch?" asked Jimmy.

"Sure! Every one. I've been working with 'em ever since this shindig started."

"What's in that black box the two rear men carried?" asked Jimmy, though he pretty well knew what the answer would be, as he had seen such boxes before.

"Part of a wireless outfit," was the answer. "I was just taking up that work when I got my wound stripe."

"Who were the two lads carrying the box?" persisted Jimmy.

"You mean the wireless box? Oh, they were two lads named Bixton. One—Wilbur—is a private. His brother Aleck is a corporal."

"Wilbur and Aleck Bixton," said Jimmy, and at once his brain began to do some active work.

"Yes, they claim to be experts in wireless work," went on the orderly. "But, for my part, I think they're a couple of——"

"Orderly!" came a sharp command from a surgeon, "I need you over here."

Some more wounded were being brought in.

"See you later, old man," said the surgeon's assistant to Jimmy. "Hope you get out of this dump soon."

"Same here," and Jimmy smiled. He did not feel the pain so much now, for he was thinking of something else.

"Bixton!" he said to himself. "Aleck and Wilbur Bixton! Where have I heard that name Bixton before? Was it——Ha! I have it! Back at Camp Sterling! Private Bixton! The rascal we helped send to prison, where he belonged. No wonder that name stuck in my mind! He's in prison still, I'm sure, for he was given a long term for desertion and rascality."

Readers of the first volume of the Khaki Boys series will, no doubt, readily recall the incidents referred to.

"Bixton!" mused Jimmy. "It isn't a common name. And yet there may be more than one who can lay claim to it. I wonder if these two Bixtons in the signal corps can be any relation to the Bixton we knew. Let's see—what was his first name—um—no, I can't recall it. Don't know that I ever heard it. But the Bixton part sticks in my mind.

"And I'm sure these two Bixtons—Aleck and Wilbur—were in the dugout with the suspicious-looking civilians. Now, of course, there may be nothing wrong in that, and yet if they're any relation to Private Bixton, late of Camp Sterling, I shouldn't put it past them to have been up to something crooked. The thing to do is to find out for sure if the two here are related to the one left behind. That's what I'll do as soon as I get on my feet! Say, maybe I'm on the track of