We separated into twos, Libby and Fitzpatrick with the rifles taking one route, and a boy named Powell and myself with the rest of the loot, taking another. All went well with us until we ran into the arms of a Tommy, alas, one of the pickets. He was a typical John Bull and he was there to prevent just such things as we had been doing. We tried bluff—
"Good-day, chum."
"What are you doing without your arms in here?" he asked.
Here was a poser, for to be without arms in the danger zone is a terrible crime. Powell tried to rise to the occasion by explaining that we had been sent with messages and had not far to go.
"What have you got in those valises?"
Our hearts sank into our boots. Our answer did not satisfy him in the least. Still holding his rifle at the "ready"—
"Right-about face! an' don't try any bloomin' funny business or yer dead. Quick march."
My heart sank into my boots and I gave up in despair, for escape seemed impossible. And then followed as fine a bit of team work as I have ever witnessed in my life. The Tommy not only had his bayonet fixed, but in his rifle we knew there were at least five rounds of live ammunition. But the thought of quietly giving up had not entered Powell's head. Just as we were passing a huge crater hole, he stumbled over and fell right at our captor's feet and frantically grabbed them. My own wits, I am glad to say, acted like lightning and I grabbed him round the neck and he toppled over. Quicker than it takes to tell, we rolled him to the edge of the crater hole and gave him a vigorous, though not too violent a push over, and down he rolled to the bottom. I can still see the smoke of his ascending remarks.
Then we ran for dear life. Luck was with us and we landed safely in our dugouts, loot and all. We hurriedly unstrapped our valises from our shoulders and disposed of our stuff in a concealed hole, because we were afraid, knowing the character of the British soldier, that he would find out where we belonged.
And sure enough, before long, he heaves on the horizon. Now was exemplified the old saw, "Money talks." Before he could reach the headquarters' dugout, Powell darted across and intercepted him. I followed.