In an hour the boys were on the road. They left two gold-pieces under the tablecloth and a first-class aëroplane as evidence of good faith.
CHAPTER X.
ON THE ROAD TO ROULERS.
Our Aviator Boys had not for a long time been accustomed to use their legs as vigorously and so continuously as required to make an endurance record on a bicycle. They had no great use for legs when flying. But they were light-hearted, and had been well fed, had enough in their knapsacks to stave off hunger for several days, and, barring the fact that Henri was still nursing a sore shoulder, ready to meet the best or the worst. Billy carried a compass, also a mind full of directions from Marie, and firmly believed that he could not miss the good old town in the fertile meadow on the little river Mander. At least Henri and himself could live or die trying.
They had already observed indications that, even with the strenuous call to the colors of the Belgian men, the little kingdom was thickly populated, and about every square inch of farm land was under close cultivation.
“Suppose people lived this close together in Texas,” remarked Billy, as they pedaled along; “why, a man as tall across the front as Colonel McCready wouldn’t have room enough to turn around.”
“Yes, and from what we have heard of the war crowd working this way we’ll have to have more room than this to keep from running into them.” Henri was not in the same mood that he was when he found the aëroplane tanks empty.
“Nothing like a scare-mark so far,” was Billy’s comment. “I have seen only women in the fields.”
“Even the dogs have work to do here.”
Henri went on to explain that the small farmers, as a rule, cannot afford to keep horses, and just now could not keep them if they had them.