“Some class to this child,” he chuckled, as he indicated the prisoners. “Copped them out all by my lonesome. But where’s Bart?” he asked, his tone changing as he noticed the absence of his comrade.
“That’s just what we want to know,” replied Frank with great uneasiness. “He got away from us in the early part of the fighting and we haven’t seen him since.”
Billy signaled to Fred Anderson, who was passing.
“Take these fellows back to the pen, will you, Fred?” he asked. “I want to help the boys hunt up Raymond.”
“Sure thing,” responded Fred good-naturedly, as he relieved Billy of his charges.
“Now,” said Billy, “let’s get a hustle on and hunt among the wounded.”
Each of them felt in his heart an awful fear that something worse than wounds might have come to Bart, but by common consent they kept the word “dead” away from their lips and tried to keep it away from their minds. All of them had been face to face with death again and again and had been wounded more or less severely, but so far death had spared them and the four had grown to feel that they would all pull through safely. But Bart was missing. Had a break come at last?
Already burial parties were going up and down the field and the stretcher parties were gathering up the wounded to convey them to the advanced dressing stations. The three chums attached themselves to these and searched frantically among both the wounded and the dead.
For some time their search was unavailing, and then suddenly Frank gave a call that brought the others instantly to his side.
“I’ve found him!” he cried. “But I don’t know whether he’s living or dead. Help me to get him out of this pile of bodies.”