Charlie Bragg stopped the car suddenly and got out. Ruth looked ahead with curiosity. The road seemed rather smooth and quite unoccupied. There was a group of trees, tortured by gunfire, which hid a turn in the track and what lay beyond. Charlie was tinkering with the engine of the machine.
"What is the matter?" Ruth ventured to ask.
"Nothing—yet," he returned. "But we've got to get around that next turn in a hurry."
"Why?"
"It's a wicked corner," said Charlie. "I might as well tell you—then you won't squeal if anything happens."
"Oh! Do you think I am a squealer?" she demanded rather tartly.
"I don't know," and he grinned again. He was an imp of mischief, this Charlie Bragg, and she did not know how to take him.
"You're not 'spoofing me,' as our British brothers put it?"
"It's an honest-to-goodness bad corner—especially at night," Charlie returned quite seriously now. "Boches know we fellows have to use it——"
"You mean the ambulances?"