Part 19 (2/2)

”There's my motor-cycle,” said Kenneth tentatively.

”Pouf! It is of no consequence. Let it remain; there are others to be obtained. It is useless to attempt to take it with you. The roads are unsafe, while in the open the ditches are too wide to take it across.”

Still Kenneth hesitated. He had no doubt that the Belgian spoke truthfully, and that he could obtain another mount at head-quarters; but it would not be the same cycle, to which he was greatly attached.

While the wounded lancer was still endeavouring to persuade Kenneth to make the attempt on foot, the corporal, from the post of observation, reported that a patrol of Uhlans was approaching.

”There are but seven,” he announced, ”and they have a prisoner with them. Shall we----?” and he significantly tapped his rifle.

After a short interval one of the Belgians stood aside to allow Kenneth to look at the approaching patrol. They were riding their horses at a walking pace, their long lances being stepped in ”buckets” behind their backs. Most of them were smoking large curved pipes.

Suddenly Kenneth uttered a half-stifled shout of surprise, for the prisoner was his chum, Rollo Barrington.

CHAPTER XV

Captured

On parting with his comrade on the road to Cortenaeken, Rollo rode at a great pace towards his goal. He was to a certain extent fortunate in finding people at the various branch roads to give him directions; and in less than an hour from the time of parting company with Kenneth he was in sight of the hamlet where he hoped to meet Major Foveneau.

The place seemed deserted. Perhaps, he thought, the Belgian troops were entrenched on the other side of the slightly rising ground. At a great distance off he could hear the rumble of guns in action.

Evidently there were two separate battles in progress. From the direction of one cannonade it seemed as if the rival forces were engaged in the district through which he had so recently ridden, yet he could have sworn that he had not seen either a single Belgian or German soldier.

Suddenly, as he glanced to the left, Rollo's heart gave a tremendous thump. He had already ridden more than half-way past the rear of a masked German battery. There were perhaps a dozen guns placed in position behind a ridge. The weapons were trained for high-angle firing, while, to render them invisible from Belgian aircraft, they were screened by branches of trees. By the side of each field-piece was an armoured ammunition cart. The body of the vehicle was upturned to a perpendicular position, the sh.e.l.ls being kept in place by a ”pigeon-hole” arrangement. The gunners were ”standing easy”, while, from the tip of a neighbouring haystack, a number of officers were observing the Belgian position through their field-gla.s.ses.

Hearing the sound of the motor-cycle, several of the men turned and looked at the dispatch-rider, but they made no attempt to stop him.

Evidently they thought he was one of their cyclists, for Rollo's uniform was smothered in grey dust, so that there was no perceptible difference between him and a motor-cyclist attached to the invading army.

Fortunately Rollo kept his head. Without slackening his speed he continued on his way until he was within two hundred yards of the nearest house in the village. Here he dismounted and began to rack his brains as to the best course to pursue.

He had fallen into a trap. Cortenaeken had been taken and was now in the possession of the enemy. He could see that several of the buildings were damaged by sh.e.l.l-fire. Unknown to himself he had ridden through the advanced German lines without any suspicion that thousands of men were concealed in the fields and thickets on either side of the road. The German left flank had been thrown forward a considerable distance, and their motor-scouts had been constantly in touch with the centre. Thus, by a pure fluke, Rollo had ridden through with a German motor-cyclist ten minutes ahead of him and another five minutes behind.

”I'll destroy the dispatch at once,” decided the lad. ”After that I'll try and ride back by the way I came. So here goes!”

He drew the petrol-soaked paper from the tank, and carried it to a dry ditch by the side of the road. The dispatch flared as soon as Rollo struck a match and set light to it. Its destruction was rapid and complete.

Before he could regain his mount a motor-cyclist dashed up. As he approached he slackened speed, gripped the exhaust-lifter, and took advantage of the consequent reduction of sound to shout something in German. Rollo shook his head; his knowledge of German was too elementary for him to reply, but he gathered that the man was asking whether he required any a.s.sistance.

Then, to the lad's consternation, the German dispatch-rider stopped, dismounted, and walked towards him.

”There's only one thing I can do---I must pretend I'm deaf and dumb--temporary effect of the concussion of a sh.e.l.l, although I can't show a wound,” thought Rollo. ”It wouldn't be cricket to shoot the chap, especially as he stopped in all good faith. Well, here goes!”

Opening his mouth and working his chin like a gasping cod-fish, the lad awaited with considerable misgivings the result of his experiment.

The German was a round-faced, fair-haired fellow of about twenty--a student fresh from college. He looked quite sympathetic, and when Rollo explained by means of signs that there was something wrong with the electric ignition of his cycle, his face lighted up. Strolling up to the British lad's mount, he proceeded in quite a natural way to examine the sparking-plug, and, for the benefit of the supposed distressed rider, he made a pantomimic display of rubbing it with emery-cloth.

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