Courtesy of "The Graphic."
"We've Got Them Licked, Boys!"
Wounded sergeant-major being borne off the field by German prisoners, cheering the reservists going to the front.
If all went well, on his fast machine the boy could afford to laugh at the speed of a galloping horse, but he had a lurking fear of the spiked helmets he thought he had seen in the farmhouse.
Was he ambushed?
At the sound of the volley, two soldiers had run out of the farmhouse. Seeing the motor-cycle driving straight at them and the Uhlans galloping behind, the riflemen prepared to fire.
Lacking an officer's direction and unaccustomed to judging the speed of an oncoming motor-cycle—that particular form of target not having been included in the German drill-book—the soldiers waited a second too long. Horace swerved to one side of the road as their rifles came up and, with the speed of the wind, he was between them.
One of the soldiers put out his hand to grab the flying rider.