Right and left the train poured in broadsides of machine-gun fire, mowing down the Germans at every yard. The Germans fell in heaps, and, as if by a miracle, both sides of the track were suddenly lined with high piles of the dead.
The little troop of British received this unexpected aid with a great cheer, broke from cover and dashed in pursuit of the great mass of Germans, who now were fleeing on all sides.
But the success of the British was destined to be short-lived. Hal and Chester, in the cab of the locomotive, had just raised a loud cheer when there was a terrific explosion, followed by a thundering crash, and both lads were hurled violently to the floor of the cab.
Chester, with blood flowing from a gash in his forehead, was the first to pick himself up. In falling his head had come in contact with a sharp projection of some kind. He was terribly dizzy, but his head was still clear.
He stooped over Hal, and at that moment the latter raised himself on his elbow and then got to his feet unsteadily.
“Great Scott! What was that?” he gasped.
Chester did not reply. Instead he swung out from the cab and glanced back over the train—or rather where the train had been. And what a sight met his gaze!
The train of armored cars was gone. Alongside the track lay pieces of wreckage, and many bodies and pieces of what had once been machine guns.
Hal peered over Chester’s shoulder.
“Another shell,” he said slowly. “But how does it happen we were not killed also?”