CHAPTER XXIX
An Old Friend—and a Bitter Enemy!
The terrified German herd sprang aside as the two figures hurtled down through the middle of them. Arms were raised sky-high, and quavering voices clamoured "Mercy, Kamerad—we surrender!" but never a finger was lifted to help Dennis. He lay on his back looking into the bloodshot eyes of his old acquaintance, Aristide Puzzeau, who, having dropped his rifle as they rolled, was searching grimly for his knife.
"Puzzeau, you fool!" gurgled the lad, as the huge paw of the Herculean poilu tightened its pressure on his throat.
"Eh, what!" exclaimed the Alsatian. "Who are you, then?" And the terrible grip relaxed ever so slightly.
"Look again," was the reply, and Dennis managed to tear Carl Heft's grey tunic open wide enough to reveal the khaki shirt and tie of an English officer.
"Zut alors!" cried the man, greatly puzzled; "still I do not know you!"
It was hardly to be wondered at, for the face of his captive was encrusted with chalky mud and badly wanted a shave.