“Hug tight where you are, and we’ll promise to come back sooner or later and rescue you, after we’ve got a bunch of those Tommies to help us out.”
Apparently the “last resort” idea did not wholly appeal to Pudge, for he quickly went on to say:
“Guess I’ll do the best I can at hunching along after you. Some places I might manage to roll, you see. But I certainly do hope they won’t open fire on me with one of those machine guns that run off a dozen shots a second.”
Frank was already on the move. He may have been sorely puzzled to account for this strange and unprovoked attack on them by the unknown party or parties concealed inside the base of the old windmill; but he also knew that the only thing for them to do was to get away from the danger zone.
A third shot was heard just about that time, and Pudge gave a groan, which naturally alarmed the other boys.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been hit, Pudge?” called Billy, whose heart was in the right place, even if he did occasionally joke his stout chum when a rollicking humor seized him.
“No, not that I’m aware of,” came the answer, “but every time I hear that gun go off it gives me a fierce start. This thing is even worse than falling in an aëroplane, and expecting to get smashed when you strike the ground.”
“But we’re getting along, remember,” said Frank, meaning to encourage the other.
“And these bends on the dip help to hide us from those Germans back there in the bargain,” added Billy, wishing to contribute his mite of consolation.
The French aviator said nothing, though he too must have realized that they were all in more or less danger should they expose themselves too rashly. No doubt, those enemies concealed back of the walls of the windmill base were watching eagerly to catch signs of their presence, and ready to send a storm of deadly missiles that way at the least invitation.