Again came that whizzing sound close to him, and still again a sharp metallic ring as another bullet struck his machine.

For a moment he feared least a tire had been punctured, but when neither collapsed he took fresh courage and sped on.
The drag on the wire was lessening the speed of his machine now and jerking dangerously at intervals.

But he thought of what one of those soldiers had said banteringly to another--_Stick around at the other end of it and listen to what you hear_, and he was resolved that if limited horse power and unlimited will power could get this wire to those brave boys who were surging and battling in the trenches ahead of him, could drag it to them wherever they went, for the glorious message they intended to send back across it, it should be done.
There was not another soul visible on that road now nor in the shell-torn area of No Man's Land through which it ran.

But the lone rider forged ahead, zig-zagging his course to escape the bullets of that unseen sharpshooter and because it seemed to free the dragging, catching wire, affording him little spurts of unobstructed speed.
Then suddenly the wire caught fast, and his machine stopped and strained like a restive horse, the power wheel racing furiously.

Hurriedly he looked behind him where the sinuous wire lay along the road, far back--as far as he could see, across the trampled entanglements and trenches.