The sergeant gave each of the boys an iron hand grip, and, leading the horses the boys had ridden, the troop wheeled and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Billy, Henri and the sergeant were to meet again, but not in France or Belgium.
An hour later the boys were in neutral territory, and it was the first breath they had drawn in peace in many a day.
But of lasting peace, not yet.
Hans Troutman was at home, and sorry for it—not because of the unexpected visit of his young friend from Dover—he was delighted over that,—but simply because Hans was a thrifty fellow who did not like even to waste time, let alone money.
While the good mother in the little house on the big river was setting the oilcloth table-cover, with the kind of a meal that appeals to the robust feeder, Henri was making a business proposition to Hans.
Hans gloried in business propositions, and he could understand them in three separate and distinct languages.
Fifty gold franc pieces for his company and his boat to Flushing.
Fifty more if he put the boys on a ship that was bound for the English Channel.
“It’s just like finding it,” said Hans, lighting his pipe.