“If we had dropped in on the fourteenth century, as we did to-day,” observed Henri, “I’ll warrant that we would have scared everybody out of Flanders.”
“It doesn’t appear, as it is, that there is a person around here bold enough to approach us.”
Billy seemed surprised that they had not run into trouble at the very start.
“‘Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you,’” quoted Henri. “It goes something like that, I think.”
“Listen!” Billy raised a hand to warn Henri not to move nor speak aloud. The sound that had put Billy on the alert was a long, low whistle. It was repeated, now and again. Curious, and also impressed that the whistler was trying to attract their attention, they began a search among the ruins. Over the top of a huge slab of stone suddenly popped a red cap, covering a regular Tom Thumb among Belgians—about four feet from tow head to short boots.
Henri said “Howdy” to him in French, at the same time extending a friendly hand. The youngster, evidently about fifteen, shyly gave Henri two fingers in greeting. He bobbed his head to Billy. Then he removed his red cap and took out of it a soiled and crumpled slip of paper. On the slip, apparently torn from a notebook, was scribbled:
“This boy saw you fly in, told us how you looked, and, if it is you, this will let you know that the Germans brought us here for safe-keeping yesterday. Cap.”
“Glory be!” Billy could hardly contain himself, and the little Belgian took his first lesson in tangoing from an American instructor. “As soon as it is dark we will move on the outer works,” was his joyous declaration.
“Say, my young friend,” he added, “do you know where we can get a bite to eat while we’re waiting?” Henri translated, and the little Belgian was off like a shot. About dusk he returned with some bread and bologna, looped up in a fancy colored handkerchief. And there was plenty of water in the Yperlee river.
Along about 11 o’clock that night Leon, the little Belgian, whispered, “Venez” (Come).