“We’ll have to, I guess,” agreed Jack. “Everyone about the place must have been scared away by the battle.”
“Or more probably the men were called to arms and the women have gone to some place of safety,” was Bill’s opinion.
A great earthenware vessel stood by the well brink and they refreshed themselves from this with long draughts of cold, clear water.
“That’s better,” declared Tom, as he set down the pitcher after a second application from it. “Now let’s be getting on, for we’ve got to find another road back.”
“Wait a minute—great chance—deserted farm—men at war—women flee in haste leaving faithful dog!” exclaimed Pottle, unslinging his camera.
“Well, hurry up and get through with your old picture box,” conceded Tom, “and, by the way, you might let that dog loose. Poor creature, he’ll surely starve to death tied up like that.”
Although the dog was a ferocious-looking animal, he seemed to know that the boys meant to give him his liberty, for he allowed them to take off his chain without any opposition and went to a small stream that flowed behind the house to slake his thirst.
This had hardly been done, and Pottle had taken a few snaps, when down the road came a furious galloping and a squadron of Belgian cavalry appeared, spurring for their lives, while behind came hoarse shouts and shots.
“Great Scott! We’re in for it now!” exclaimed Tom in a dismayed voice; “a flanking party must have attacked those fellows and driven them back.”
The squadron, a small one, and probably a scouting party, galloped past the house without even noticing the boys and the auto standing in the road. It was plain they were hard pressed. They had hardly gone when another body of horsemen appeared. They wore gray uniforms. Their metal helmets were covered with canvas with the number of their troop stencilled on it in large figures. Each man carried a lance with a gleaming point. Like those they pursued they swept by without paying attention to anything but the pursuit.