Don and Tim had received but one wounded man from the dressing station back of the woods on the hill. Looking for additional wounded, who might be struggling in, they had run around the northern edge of the woods and a half-mile farther on, near the front line trenches, when a military policeman rode out from an old orchard and stopped them.
“Too much noise from that motor of yours and the Heinies are very wide awake,” he said. “They’ll spot you and be pretty likely to get you.”
“We hadn’t seen any Hun fliers and we thought they might be generally keeping quiet,” Don said.
“They are quiet just now, but I reckon it’s just before a storm,” said the M. P. “That’s the way it usually is. If they suddenly start to put down a barrage before a drive or a raid you’ll be in for it. You know a good many of the bullets fly high and pretty nearly half of them ricochet. You fellows can’t get back of a tree as I and my horse can. Better go back.”
Tim, who was driving the car, having now become rather proficient at it, had a word to say, as usual.
“R-right you are, me b’y! We was jist calculatin’ if they sint some whizzers over to ketch ’em in these here dish pans; do ye see?” And Tim tapped his helmet. “We’re lookin’ fer sowineers, we are.”
“Oh, yes, you’d stop ’em! If a 122-shell would be coming right for that topknot of yours it would veer off and go on, hoping to draw blood where none was already flowing.”
“Faith, an’ how did yez iver git in the sarvice? Ye’re color blind; me mither dyed me hair blue; can’t ye see it? to offset me too cheerful disposition.”
“If you told me it was green I might believe you. But on the top of the green it’s all rufus, Mike, all rufus.”
“Well, misther bobby, it’s all right fer yez. But it’s a fightin’ color; ain’t it?”