could have dropped more than half of his stock of destructive bombs.
Back to the hut went the three boys. Harry was limping, a fact Tom noticed for the first time.
"Look here, did you run up against a Boche bullet while you were chasing around up there, Harry." he asked solicitiously.
"Not quite so bad as that, I'm glad to tell you," came the reply, as Harry stooped to rub the calf of his left leg gently. "But something struck me a nasty blow. Don't know exactly what it was, but I warrant I'll have a nice black-and-blue mark to show for it. Felt mighty queer, too, just as if you'd gone and slapped me with a lathe, flat-side out."
"I reckon," spoke up Jack, "it was a bullet striking the part of your machine that you've got sheathed in steel. You must have been resting your leg against it just where the Boche bullet struck."
"Now, strange to say, I hadn't thought of that explanation before, Jack. But I wouldn't be surprised if you'd guessed the answer. But it stung like everything for a while, and feels sore still."
"But for all that you've cause for being satisfied, Harry," Tom told him.
"Considering what would have happened to
