"Yes, I know," said Jimmy soberly.
"Then turn us loose. Give us a chance, anyhow!"
"A chance to help kill some more of our boys?" cried Roger. "I guess not! You had your chance, and you didn't take it. You preferred to sell it to the Huns. Move along!" he cried.
The Bixtons saw that pleadings were useless, but later on they made one more attempt to free themselves. As they drew nearer the smoke it was seen that it came from a burning village, and a little later, as they entered the outskirts of the desolate and smoking town they saw signs which indicated that it had been recently occupied and deserted by Germans.
"They must be in retreat!" cried Jimmy. "Our boys can't be far away."
"You're right!" assented Roger. "If we go this way," and he pointed to the west, "we ought to come to our lines."
"You're wrong!" said Wilbur quickly. "Our lines lie over that way. I ought to know, for we came from there last night. Our lines are there," and he pointed to the east.
"You've got nerve—calling 'em 'our' lines!" declared Jimmy. "You don't belong to the American army any more."
"Do you suppose he can be right?" asked Roger in a low voice of his chum. "Maybe our lines are in that direction."
"It only needs their telling me to go east to make me go west!" exclaimed Jimmy. "Naturally they don't want to be taken back to the company they dishonored. They want to escape to the Germans they served. No, sir! We march west!"