“Fritz—German name—don’t use it in Belgium—think you’re a spy—then you’ll be on the fritz,” sputtered Pottle.
The car was brought to a standstill opposite a neat white farmhouse approached by an avenue of slender dark poplars. A big dog bayed as the car stopped, but there was no other sign of life about the place except some chickens pecking and scratching in the dooryard. In the background were yellow stacks, for the harvest had just been gathered. It made a pretty, contented scene in contrast with the turbulent experiences through which the boys had passed only recently.
But they did not spend much time comparing the rural peace with the unrest of the cities in the war area. There was work for them all to do. First the brake was mended by replacing a broken bolt that had caused the trouble that almost ended tragically for them. Then came the fitting of a new “shoe” and tube, at which they all helped by turns.
The work took some time, and at its completion they were all dusty, hot, and very thirsty.
“I’d give a lot for a good drink of cold water or milk right now,” puffed Tom, resting from his exertions with the tire pump. “What do you say if we go up to that farmhouse and see if we can buy something to drink?”
“Oh, for an ice cream soda,” sighed Bill.
“You might as well wish for lemonade in the Sahara desert,” scoffed Tom. “They wouldn’t know an ice cream soda here if they met it.”
Laughing and chatting, they approached the house, walking up the avenue. But as they neared it, their cheerfulness appeared to receive a check. No indication of life but those mentioned appeared about the place. It was silent and shuttered. The stable seemed to be empty. No farm wagons stood about.
Repeated knockings at the door failed to produce anyone.
“There’s a well yonder,” said Tom Jukes. “What do you say if we help ourselves?”