"Yep. They spot us. We run without lights, you know; but every once in a while they drop a shell there. They have the range perfectly. They caught one of my bunkies there only a week ago."
"Oh, Charlie! An American?"
"No. Scotch. Only Scotty in this section, and a mighty nice fellow. Well, he'll never drive that boat again."
"Oh!" gasped Ruth. "Was he killed?"
"Shucks! No!" scoffed Charlie. "But his ambulance was smashed to bits. Luckily he hadn't any load with him at the time. But it would have been all one to the Boches."
Bragg got in beside the girl again, tried out his levers, and suddenly shot the car ahead.
"Hang on!" cried Charlie Bragg under his breath.
The ambulance shot down to the corner. It was all black shadow there, and, as Charlie intimated, he dared use no lights. If there was an obstruction they would crash into it!
The dusk had fallen suddenly. The sky was overcast, so not a star flecked the firmament. Through the gloom the ambulance raced, the young fellow stooping low over the steering wheel, trying to peer ahead.
How many hundreds of times had he made similar runs? Ruth had never before appreciated just what it meant to be driving an ambulance through these roads so near the battle front.