Three abreast we started again.
“There’s a sign-post,” said Kent, whose eyes were exceptionally good.
“To Molbergen,” it read, pointing along a straight by-road at right angles to our direction.
“This is the one we are looking for,” I announced. “How do you feel, Tynsdale?”
“I can hardly keep my eyes open,” he made answer.
“Well, we’ll soon get water,” I said, to console him.
“I’ll walk ahead as a pace-maker,” suggested Kent.
“Good!” It appeared a splendid idea. “I’ll take the rear. Tynsdale had better follow you close, to get the benefit of your pace-making.”
Kent led with a swinging pace along the sandy, rutted road for an hour and a half. The country stretched flat on each hand, often broken by patches of forest. A telephone line on our left irritated me with the monotony of its ever-recurring, never-ending succession of poles. I had the old sensation of walking up-hill. We found no water. Then we came to the northern highway, into which we swung by a turn to the left.