The observer was fumbling about to get his foot in the step. “I thought they were way out to the right,” he said. “But I don’t care a curse where they are. I want a camp or a French cottage with coffee on the stove. I’ll see if I can’t shoot somebody awake.”
“Try one more shout first,” said Reddie, and they shouted together again.
“Got ’im,” said Reddie joyfully, as a faint hail came in response, and Jones took his foot off the step and began to fumble under his coat for a torch. “Here!” yelled Reddie. “This way! Here!”
They heard the answering shouts draw nearer, and then, just as Jones found his torch and was pulling it out from under his coat, Reddie clutched at his arm. “What—what was it——” he gasped. “Did you hear what they called?”
“No, couldn’t understand,” said Jones in some surprise at the other’s agitation. “They’re French, I suppose; farm people, most like.”
“It was German,” said Reddie hurriedly. “There again, hear that? We’ve dropped in Hunland.”
“Hu-Hunland!” stammered Jones; then desperately, “It can’t be. You sure it isn’t French—Flemish, perhaps?”
“Flemish—here,” said Reddie, dismissing the idea, as Jones admitted he might well do, so far south in the line. “I know little enough German, but I know French well enough; and that’s not French. We’re done in, Walk.”
“Couldn’t we bolt for it,” said Walk, looking hurriedly round. “It’s dark, and we know where the lines are.”
“What hope of getting through them?” said Reddie, speaking in quick whispers. “But we’ve got a better way. We’ll make a try. Here, quickly, and quiet as you can—get to the prop and swing it when I’m ready. We’ll chance a dash for it.”