“Mah boss ain’t gittin’ scairt at nuthin’, yo’ white fellah! Ah bet yu can’t scare him. Dis yer same German spy fit wif mah boss up yon furder no’th an’ mah boss jes’ up en’ kilt dis German man’s pardner, kilt him daid! Major Little of the evac. horspittle he done tol’ me ’bout hit. Dey ain’t no po’ white German what kin scare mah boss!”
“Thank you, Wash. But this gentleman won’t believe—”
“Well, you sassy nigger, how then did this spy get away?”
“Come, come, Corporal! This looks silly to me. Let us be going on, or that spy will get away from us.”
“Good luck to you, Mister Policeman,” said Don, and started his car again.
Don and Wash put in the rest of the day overhauling the ambulance. Early in the evening they were again on the road to Château-Thierry and witnessing a sight most depressing.
The French were in retreat—constantly falling back. The retirement was orderly. There was no rout, no apparent hurrying and, from the din of battle ahead, it was plain that every foot of advance that the enemy made was bitterly contested. Yet the Huns were gaining, as they had been for five days and for nearly thirty miles, encompassing an area of six hundred square miles in this drive. Success seemed to be written on their banners in this, the greatest effort of all. Thus they forced a deep wedge into the Allied line, the farthermost point of which had reached the town of Château-Thierry. And in the succeeding days what more would they gain?
Back, and farther back were swept the French, and the Huns were elated. The blue-and-red clad troops who had fought them so savagely were now no match for the vast numbers of chosen shock troops. Was there no means by which the boches could be checked?