Part 25 (1/2)

CHAPTER XIX

Arrested as Spies

”We're safe for the present,” remarked Kenneth, after the two fugitives had placed a distance of at least four miles between them and the outlying German post. ”I didn't mention it before, but the belt is slipping horribly. The strain has stretched it a lot; so we may as well shorten the rubber.”

”By Jove, it is slack!” exclaimed Rollo, testing the ”give” of the belt. ”It's a wonder it didn't let us down badly. It's a funny thing, old man, but I've often noticed that if we expect a lot of trouble we get through without hardly any bother. The last lap, when we rushed the German lines, was as easy as ABC.”

”Yes,” a.s.sented his companion. ”I've noticed that too. It's the unexpected trifle that often leads to greater difficulties. Got your knife handy? Oh, I suppose the Germans took a fancy to that too. Can you get mine from my pocket? That's right, cut the belt through at an inch from the end.”

The motor-cyclists had halted in the midst of a war-devastated area.

Farm houses and buildings were numerous, but in almost every case they had suffered severely from sh.e.l.l-fire. Not a living creature, besides themselves, was in sight. Here and there were corpses of the gallant defenders of Belgium, some in uniforms, some in civilian attire. These men, shot whilst in the act of retiring under a terrific artillery fire, had been left where they fell, showing how heavy had been the German attack; for in most cases the plucky Belgians contrived to carry off those of their comrades who had died for their country.

Close to the spot where Kenneth and his companion had stopped was a large farm wagon piled high with furniture. Yoked to it were the bodies of two oxen, while a short distance away lay a dead peasant--an old man. The wagon, on which the refugee had been attempting to remove his goods and chattels from his threatened homestead, had fallen an easy target to the German guns.

A gnawing hunger compelled the British lads to examine the sh.e.l.l-riddled contents of the wagon in the hope of finding food. But in this they were disappointed. Not so much as a sc.r.a.p of anything to eat was to be found.

Both lads were parched, Kenneth especially so. Even Rollo had almost forgotten the refres.h.i.+ng taste of the water given him by the German private. Yet, even in the pangs of a burning thirst, they could not bring themselves to drink of the stagnant water in the ditches by the roadside.

The repair completed, the motor-cyclists remounted. They were most eager to push on, even for the sake of obtaining drink, food, and rest.

It could only be a matter of a few short, easy miles before they would be safe for the time being in the country still held by their friends, the Belgian troops.

”She's pulling splendidly now,” announced Kenneth, referring to the transmission of power from the engine to the driving-wheel. Both lads had now discarded the bandages over their bogus wounds, and conversation was a fairly easy matter.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the motor began to falter.

Then it ”picked up”, ran for about a quarter of a minute and slowed down again, finally coming to a dead-stop.

”No petrol,” announced Rollo ruefully. ”The tank is empty.”

”Rot!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed his companion incredulously. ”It was full when we started, and I'll swear we've done nothing like sixty miles on it yet.”

Kenneth examined the gauge, then turned to his chum.

”Sorry, old man,” he said. ”I'm wrong. The stuff's all gone.”

Further examination revealed the unpleasant fact that there was a small leak between the piping and the carburettor. Unnoticed, a quant.i.ty of the petrol had run to waste.

”It's a case of push,” continued Kenneth. ”How's your foot? Fit for a tramp? If not, you may as well get on the saddle and I'll run you along.”

Although young Barrington's ankle was paining considerably, he st.u.r.dily refused to take advantage of his companion's offer. From experience he knew that pus.h.i.+ng a motor was no light task. Kenneth might be capable of giving him a lift, but Rollo would not trespa.s.s upon his friend's generous conduct to that extent.

On and on they plodded, Rollo resting one hand on the saddle and striving to conceal his limp. Presently a practically ruined village came in sight. Not only had it been heavily bombarded, but subsequent fires had increased the work of destruction. Thick columns of smoke were rising high into the sultry air, while above the roar of the flames could be heard the excited tones of human voices.

”The villagers are trying to save the little that remains of their homes,” said Kenneth. ”They'll be able to give us some information as to where we can pick up the Belgian troops. Perhaps, though I doubt it, we may be also able to procure petrol.”

Suddenly a peasant, who was standing about a hundred yards in front of the nearest house, took to his heels and ran, shouting as he went.

Before he gained the village, spurts of dull flame burst from behind a heap of debris piled across the road, and half a dozen bullets _zipped_ past the two lads.

”Lie down!” exclaimed Kenneth, stopping only to place his precious motor-cycle behind a tree by the side of a ditch, before he followed the prompt example of his companion. ”Those fellows have mistaken us for Uhlans. I don't wonder at it, now I come to think about it.”