The boys got into the cans. Stan kept his head well up out of the can. He meant to keep it up in the wind until it was absolutely necessary to duck down.
The truck swung in under a row of lights. Stan ducked down and held his nose. There was much guttural shouting. Several men moved around the truck. They poked bayonets among the cans and against them. Stan felt a blade strike the can he was in. The can gave out a dull clinking sound, indicating it was full. Stan grinned. Someone shouted an order and the truck rolled on.
As soon as darkness closed over them the boys popped out of the cans. O’Malley was talking to himself in very rich Irish.
“If I’d known this was goin’ to happen to me I’d have brought along a blanket to wrap meself in,” he growled. “We’ll smell so bad we won’t be able to hide any place.”
Stan laughed. “They won’t need blood-hounds to track us,” he admitted.
“We will get other clothing,” Sim said.
The truck rolled on, crossing a hill and dropping down toward a town. Lights winked ahead of them and the road became smoother.
“We unload pretty soon,” Sim said. “There will be a small farmhouse on the right with tall trees. We get off there. The farmer is a member of the underground.”
“Underground in Germany?” Stan asked in surprise.
“They told me it was well established and doing a big business. People are paying well to get out of Germany before it collapses.” Sim was swinging a leg over the side as he spoke.