"It was all Bob's fault," accused Jimmy jocularly. "If he hadn't gone and said that our gunman had beat it along the wall and into that orchard we wouldn't have been in such a rush to beat it after him."
"Yes, and what did you say?" retorted Bob in the same joking spirit. "You were first man to yell, 'Come on, let's after him.' Then away you went and took us along."
"Well, you didn't have to go, did you?" countered Jimmy.
"Sure we did, else why are we Blazes' bunkies?"
There was an earnest note back of this lightly uttered reply. Jimmy caught it. Slapping Bob on the shoulder he said: "Good old Bob. You're not so worse. I kind of like you."
"So glad, I'm sure," simpered Bob, returning the slap with interest.
"It's just as well that we kept together, I guess," commented Roger soberly. "There's safety in numbers, you know. I don't see that there's any use in hanging around here. Our man has given us the slip. It must have been some stray Boche out on his own. Not a soldier, but some secret sympathizer with the Fatherland, perhaps. Else why would he be slipping around behind gates to plug passing soldiers? It's unusual for a party from camp to be shot at like that so far back from the fighting district."
"This yellow sneak might have been hanging around the station when we got off the train."
As usual, Bob was full of theories. "He knew it was a straight road to camp and that he couldn't miss us. Very likely he knows this part of the country like a book, so he just took a cross-cut and waited at the gate for us. It was a fine chance to get a whack at the 'American dogs.' Long live Bunco Bill—not! I hope he chokes!" anathematized Bob.