But for once Frances preferred to be a listener.
“No, Boone Cruttenden—you!” she said. “Tell me what you are doing here, anyway.”
“I got a chance,” explained Boone, “to come here with Major Floyd—he’s our liaison officer with the British Mission back of the line—and have a look at this sector. The regiment may take it over next month. The Major knows the ground, and he took me down there”—he pointed backwards over his shoulder—“to see our advanced posts.”
“Where are the trenches?”
“Trenches? There are none. This is open warfare. The Yanks and the Huns are mixed up together in those woods, watching one another like cat and dog. We hold the stream, and some of the ground beyond. That pontoon bridge is covered by a concealed machine-gun post of ours, in case the Hun tries to rush it. It’s probable he had direct observation on it: that is why the Major and I did not linger much as we came across. We’re in a sort of pocket here. The German line bends around us. Some of their posts up in the woods have a clear view of the road, all the way up. Luckily visibility is bad to-day, or you might have been spotted. Now tell me what you are doing here!”
Frances told him—as much as she thought he need know.
“And where is your hospital located?” demanded Boone.
Miss Lane informed him.
“That is more than thirty miles back!” cried Boone.
“About that,” agreed Miss Lane meekly.