Part 21 (2/2)

”Would that it were!” said the Belgian. ”Then we might see some fun.

They are artillery. Ten thousand plagues on the clumsiness of Gaston!

By missing that fellow, he allowed him to bring this hornets' nest about our ears. To the cellar! We cannot fight, we must hide and trust to luck.”

Quickly the cellar-flap was shut, and in total darkness the six men waited for the opening of the German guns.

An appalling crash, followed by the rumbling of fallen bricks, announced that the first sh.e.l.l had hit the building. Mortar dropped from the arched roof of their underground retreat. The Belgians chuckled.

”Let the rascals waste their sh.e.l.ls,” declared etienne. ”They will want them badly before the war is over.”

”Did you bring the water?” asked Rollo.

”Rather! I am not such an a.s.s as to forget about you, old man,”

replied Kenneth. ”Can you limp as far as the end of the cellar?

There's a bench or something of the kind. It will be better than sitting on the cold stones.”

Carefully and deliberately Kenneth bathed his chum's injured leg, while without the deafening crashes continued at rapid intervals.

”There can't be much of the house left,” observed Rollo. ”It wasn't much of a show when I first saw it. By the by, where is your bike?”

”Under some damp straw in an outhouse. It ought to be well out of the bursting area of those sh.e.l.ls. At any rate----”

A vivid flash of light filled the cellar. There was a terrific roar, followed by an avalanche of bricks and stones. Kenneth, who was kneeling by his chum, was thrown violently against Rollo, and the two, deafened by the concussion, found themselves gasping for breath amid the sulphurous fumes that wafted around them.

A sh.e.l.l, cras.h.i.+ng through the cellar-flap, had burst in the underground refuge. The luckless Belgians were literally blown to atoms. Kenneth and Rollo had escaped almost by a miracle, only to be confronted by a new danger. They were buried alive, and in peril of suffocation from the noxious gases of the burst projectile.

Kenneth staggered to his feet. His head came in contact with an immense slab of stone. He stretched out his arms, to find that his hands touched a shaking ma.s.s of brickwork on both sides.

”We're trapped!” he whispered. ”If those brutes fire again, the rest of the cellar will cave in on top of us I wonder how the other fellows got on.”

He called the Belgians by name, at first softly, then gradually raising his voice, but no reply came through the intervening barrier of debris.

The firing had now ceased. The last sh.e.l.l--the most destructive of all--had reduced the farm-house to a heap of ruins. Above ground, hardly one brick or stone adhered to another, while beneath the mound of ruins the two British lads were entombed, and apparently doomed to a lingering death.

CHAPTER XVII

The Way Out

For nearly a quarter of an hour, though it seemed like a long-drawn night, Kenneth and Rollo remained silent. Gradually the air became purer as the fumes escaped through the crevices in the brickwork. It was the darkness they dreaded most--a darkness that could almost be felt. It seemed to have weight, to press upon their eyes.

”I wish I had a match,” whispered Kenneth.

Rollo felt in his pockets. It was, as he expected, a vain quest, for when in the hands of the Germans he had been rigorously searched, and every article in his possession had been confiscated.

”This is the limit,” said Kenneth dolorously. ”I'd much rather be shot in action. Here we may be snuffed out and no one will be a bit the wiser. We may not be found for years, perhaps never.”

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