Clearly the man was born to command, or he had acquired that right in some manner. There was an indefinable air of authority about him, even though now he was hurrying about almost frantically, looking for some weapon with which to attack the barrier that held the boys prisoners.
"That sure is a queer uniform he has on," remarked Jimmy, as he tried in vain to move some of the beams from his side of the mass of timber that had fallen when the mill was blown up. "It's mostly American, but it has a British air about it."
"And his leather puttees look like some the Germans wear," added Bob. "Maybe he's a war correspondent, and had to pick up bits of uniform from all over."
"He isn't a war correspondent," declared Jimmy.
"What makes you so sure?" Roger wanted to know.
"Because, if he was, he'd have a brassard with a large letter 'C' on it, around his arm," went on Jimmy. "And he wouldn't have a big automatic revolver strapped to his hip, either. The correspondents are classed as non-combatants, and aren't allowed to go armed."
"That's right," chimed in Franz. "But who is he!"
It seemed useless to speculate then, and, indeed, the boys were in little mood for it. The precariousness of their position was alarming. And while I have detailed the conversation among them, you are to understand that it all took place very quickly. In fact from the time they first observed the strange rescuer, until they had talked about his odd uniform, was only about half a minute.
Suddenly the man—officer let us call him—who was scurrying about just beyond the jagged barrier, uttered a cry of satisfaction. He hurried out of the boys' vision for a moment, but lest they have any fear that he had deserted them and left them to their fates, he called:
"I've found what I've been looking for—an axe! I'll soon have you out now!"