“Yes, that’s a fact, Thad; I see soldiers, and they’re watching us come on,” Allan observed, with a tinge of disappointment in his voice.
It was with more or less anxiety then that the scouts approached the bridge.
“I don’t suppose it would be wise to risk rushing it!” said Bumpus, and the idea of such a thing was so ridiculous that Giraffe laughed aloud.
“Just imagine us bearing down on the guard in this wheezy old trap!” he exclaimed; “why, old Don Quixote on Rosenante wouldn’t be a circumstance to us. He fought windmills, and we’d have to tackle German soldiers armed with guns. Well, our only chance would be to scare them nearly to death, so they’d be unable to shoot.”
“We’ll not think of taking any such risk,” said Thad, severely, though of course he knew very well Giraffe was only joking.
With many a groan the car was brought to a stand at the bridge. Three middle-aged men in uniform stepped up, and one who seemed to be a non-commissioned officer addressed them in German.
Of course it devolved on Giraffe to do the honors, and so he proceeded to tell just who they were, how they came to be on the Rhine, and how necessary it was that they get back to Antwerp so as to take the sick lady away.
All this had been arranged between Giraffe and Thad beforehand; and possibly the former had practiced his speech at a previous time, so that there might be no hitch.
Meanwhile Bumpus was waiting and listening, hoping for the best. The gruff old German soldier looked at their passports, and then at the little American flag which each one of them had fastened to the lapel of his khaki coat.
He shook his head, and it was in the negative, Bumpus noticed, with a spasm in the region of his heart.