They stopped short for consultation.
“There’s a patrol of some kind there,” said the corporal, as he strained his eyes, “and it isn’t likely that it’s anybody we care to meet. Sheldon, your eyes are the best. See if you can make out those uniforms.”
“I think they’re Huns,” judged Frank, after a moment’s intense scrutiny. “But we’ll have to get a trifle closer before I can be sure of it.”
They moved a hundred feet closer and then conjecture gave way to certainty.
“No doubt about it,” pronounced Frank. “They’re Huns, as sure as shooting. And there are twenty of them if there’s one. They’re right in our path and there’s no getting around them.”
It was grave news, and their pulses quickened as they recognized their peril.
The corporal pondered a moment before reaching a decision.
“We’re between two fires,” he said. “It would be suicide to go forward with our numbers and our scanty ammunition. With the fellows in the boats we’ve still got a chance. We’ll have to double on our tracks and try to get past the boats. When we hear them coming close, we’ll lie down flat on the path and trust to their passing us without seeing us. The only thing that will queer us will be if they happen to flash a light when they’re abreast of us.”
The young soldiers followed him as he turned and started on the return journey, listening as they went for tokens of the enemy’s approach.
Soon the sound of oars grew distinct. The corporal gave a whispered command and they flattened themselves on the bank as far away from the edge as possible.