He recalled how good-tempered he had always been; how he alone had made jokes on the long march, when the cold and driving rain had soured every one else, and empty stomachs grumbled to keep company with aching bones.
Reflecting upon this, Lafe realized that he was very fond of the "Dutchman," and would be in despair if he had come to grief.
"Foldeen!" he yelled out again.
"Sh! sh! geeb guiet!" came a guttural reply, from somewhere near by.
The boy's heart lightened on the instant. He looked hastily about him with a cheerful eye, trying to trace the direction of the voice. "Where are you?" he demanded, in a lower tone.
For answer, the blue-coated German rose from a cover of brush, away down the hill, and beckoned him, enforcing at the same time by emphatic gestures the importance of coming noiselessly.
Lafe stole down furtively, and in a minute was bending close beside Foldeen in shrubby shelter.
"Get hurt any?" Lafe asked, subduing his voice almost to a whisper in deference to the other's visible anxiety.
Foldeen shook his head. "It is much worse," he murmured back. "I have my flute lost."
The boy could not but smile. "We can thank our stars we weren't both smashed to atoms," he observed.