"I'll fix that in a jiffy," said the driver, and began jacking up the wheel. But, quickly as he stripped off the deflated tire, he was not so quick that Harry failed to see that the blow-out had been caused by a straight cut—not at all the sort of tear produced by a jagged stone or a piece of broken glass. He said nothing of his discovery, however, and a moment later he looked up to face a young man in the uniform of an officer of the British territorial army. This young man had keen, searching blue eyes, and very blond hair. His upper lip was closely shaven, but it bore plain evidence that within a few days it had sported a moustache.
"Well," said the officer, "what are you doing here?"
The driver straightened up as if in surprise. "Blow-out, sir," he said, touching his cap. "I'm carrying these young gentlemen from Waterloo to Ealing, sir. Had to come around on account of the roads."
"You've have your way lost, my man. Why not admit it?" said the officer, showing his white teeth in a smile. He turned to Harry an Dick. "Boy Scouts, I see," he commented. "You carry orders concerning the movement of troops from Ealing? They are to entrain—where?"
"Near Croydon, sir, on the Brighton and South Coast Line," said Harry, lifting his innocent eyes to his questioner.
"So! They go to Dover, then, I suppose—no, perhaps to Folkestone—- oh, what matter? Hurry up with your tire, my man!"
He watched them still as the car started. Then he went back to the house.
"Whatever did you tell him that whopper about Croydon for?" whispered
Dick. "I wasn't going to tell him anything-"
"Then he might have tried to make us," answered Harry, also in a whisper. "Did you notice anything queer about him?"
"Why, no—"