“Another thing the book says,” snapped Billy, in response, “is that that old town is in a district as flat as a floor, and, if nothing else, we are sure of a landing.”
“I wish we were as sure of a dinner.” Henri never lost sight of the dinner question.
The flight was continued in silence. It was a strain to keep up conversation, and the boys quit talking to rest their throats. Besides, there was not a drop of water left in the canteen.
It was late afternoon when the boys saw Ypres beneath them. It was just about the time that the Allies were advancing in the region between Ypres and Roulers, the town where the best Flemish lace comes from. But the Allies had not yet reached Ypres.
Henri glimpsed the remains of some ancient fortifications, and urged Billy to make a landing right there.
“A good place to hide in case of emergency,” he advised.
Billy agreed, set the planes for a drop, and came down neatly in the open.
“We ought to be able to get a change of linen here, for that’s the big business in this town.” Henri was pretty well posted, for in his cradle he had slept on Ypres linen.
There was no work going on in the fertile fields around the town. The Belgian peasants thereabouts were either under arms or under cover.
“When King Louis set up these old ramparts he probably did not look forward to the day when they would provide a hangar for a flying-machine.” This from Billy, who was pushing the aëroplane to the shelter of a crumbling fortalice.