Part 34 (2/2)
The man glanced suspiciously at his informant.
”Never heard of it,” he declared. ”Mine's the Northumberland Fusiliers--'Quo Fata Vocant' is our motto, and strikes me Fate has led me a pretty dance. The 9th Regiment of the Line?”
”Of the Belgian army,” explained Kenneth, for the man's declaration sounded like a challenge. ”We're British volunteer dispatch-riders--corporals.”
”Same here; I'm a corporal, unless I'm officially dead. But that's neither here nor there. Question is, where am I?”
”In Belgium, not so very far from Liege.”
”That's a blessing. It's a relief to know I'm not on rotten German soil. But it's a long, long way to Tipperary.”
”What do you mean?” asked Kenneth in astonishment.
The Northumberland Fusilier also betrayed surprise.
”You've not heard that song? Well, where have you been to? But let's be on the move. It's cold enough, in all conscience, without standing still to be frozen. Where are you making for?”
”The Dutch frontier--it's only about five or six miles off,” replied Rollo.
”Not this child,” declared the man vehemently. ”So we part company, chums.”
”Why?” asked Kenneth.
”I'm trying to rejoin my regiment. As for being interned in Holland, I'm not having any.”
”You won't be interned; you're in mufti. Have you any idea how far you'll have to tramp? Across Belgium and a part of France--every mile of the way held by the enemy. Where are the British now?”
”Pus.h.i.+ng the Germans back from Paris, chum; that's what they were doing when I got copped.”
”We were told that the British army was annihilated.”
”Some rotten German yarn,” exclaimed the corporal contemptuously.
”Take it from me, as one who knows, the Germans have bitten off more than they can chew. But is that right that the Dutchmen won't keep us till the end of the war?”
”Certainly, provided you are not in uniform.”
”That settles it, then,” declared the man. ”By the right--slow march.
There's a plank bridge a little way farther up-stream.”
This obstacle having been surmounted, the three fugitives made in a northerly direction. Only once in half an hour did the Northumberland Fusilier break the silence.
”Got any tommy?” he asked. ”Any grub?”
”Not a crumb.”
”Rough luck! I haven't had a bite for sixteen hours or more, and my belt's in the last notch.”
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