Then came an order sharp and crisp.
“Arrette!”
Jack was not a French scholar but there was something in the way the command was given that made him stand without moving a muscle. Footsteps came behind him and then he felt rather than saw a man passing from the rear to face him.
He worked round to the front of the boy and then Jack saw that he was a small man with carefully waxed mustache in whose hand was a particularly serviceable-looking revolver, which he held unpleasantly level at Jack’s head.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THROUGH BULLET-RACKED AIR.
The man with the revolver gave a sudden cry:
“Mon ami Read-ee!”
“Great Scott, de Garros!” gasped Jack, recognizing the French aviator. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask zee same question of you,” smiled the other. “I leave you on zee sheep and now, voila! I find you in a Belgian wood wizout zee hat, wiz your face scratched by zee bramble and looking—pardon me, please,—like zee tramp.”