The Dispatch Riders Part 34

It was now bitterly cold. A hard frost made the ground like iron.

Since it was too hazardous to proceed at a rapid pace, the lads felt the piercing air accordingly. With their shoulders hunched and their ungloved hands thrust deeply into their pockets, they kept on, shivering in spite of the fact that in the excitement of regaining their liberty--temporarily, at any rate--their nerves were a-tingle and the blood surged rapidly through their veins.

"What's that ahead?" whispered Kenneth. "Men?"

The lads peered through the darkness. Fifty yards ahead were several upright objects at regular intervals, looking exactly like an extended line of soldiers.

"Germans!" whispered Rollo. "Lie down."

They threw themselves upon the frozen ground and kept the objects under observation. Before long the effect of their rec.u.mbent positions in contact with the earth became painful. Rollo got to his knees.

"I'll go a little nearer," he whispered. "You stay here. They don't seem to be moving."

"I'll come too," whispered Kenneth in reply.

"No, you don't. One might escape notice where two might not. I'll be very cautious."

Kenneth remained. He could just discern the form of his chum as he slowly and carefully approached the line of mysterious objects.

Presently he saw Rollo regain his feet and walk towards him.

"It's all right," announced Harrington. "They are a row of alders."

His companion arose, slowly and stiffly. He had to swing his arms vigorously for some minutes to warm his chilled body.

"Let's get on," he said.

"Getting on" was not an easy matter, for upon arriving at the row of trees the lads found that they lined the bank of a sluggish stream, too broad to leap across and too deep to wade. Already thin ice had formed upon its surface. Swimming under these conditions might be performed, but the undertaking required a lot of pluck on a night like this.

Furthermore, there was the after-effect to take into consideration.

"Now, what's to be done?" asked Kenneth. For once, at least, he realized that his impetuosity failed him, and that he must rely upon the calmer, deliberate, and perhaps over-cautious counsels of his chum.

"Cross dry-shod," replied Rollo. "We must follow the bank up-stream until we find a means of crossing. Not a recognized bridge--that would almost to a certainty be guarded--but a plank thrown across for the use of some farmer. It's no use wasting time here."

He stopped suddenly. From behind the shelter of one of the trees a tall, dark figure advanced swiftly and unhesitatingly.

The fugitives' first impulse was to take to their heels, but before they had recovered sufficiently from their surprise a voice exclaimed:

"What cheer, mates! What might you be doing here?"

Arrested by the sound of an unmistakable English voice, the lads held their ground. Kenneth, with studious politeness, said: "We are pleased to make your acquaintance," and then felt inclined, in spite of his physical discomforts, to laugh at the absurdity of his remark.

The man held out his hand. Kenneth grabbed it cordially. As he did so he noticed that the stranger was dressed almost in rags. He wore a battered slouch hat, a cloak that reached to his knees, and trousers so short in the leg that there was a gap between the foot of them and his grey socks. On his feet he wore a pair of sabots.

"What might you be doing here?" he repeated.

"Trying to regain our regiment," replied Rollo.

"Same here. What's yours?"

"The 9th Regiment of the Line."

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?"

"Pushing 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."