"That's easier," said Fuller with a sigh of relief. "Now if you'll be so good as to unlace my boot I'll massage this low-down ankle."
"You'll keep still," ordered Barcroft firmly, "We'll do the rubbing business—if only to keep our blood circulating."
"Did you save your map?" inquired Fuller.
"I burnt mine."
"Yes, I have mine," replied the flight-sub. "I make it about sixty miles from the Dutch frontier—not much use making a shot for the coast, I take it?"
"Phew! Sixty miles—I did that distance once on a walking tour. For pleasure, mark you," said Fuller. "Plenty to eat, a decent show to put up at every night, and quite fine weather and I had galled heels by the end of the second day."
"If we could sneak a captive balloon like you did at Sylt," remarked the A.P. "That would be top-hole."
"A bit of sheer good luck," said Fuller reminiscently. "That sort of dose isn't often repeated. Tressidar and I broke into a house and collared suits of mufti. That won't do here, though. We were on Danish soil then; now we are in occupied Belgium. Caught and we are shot as spies, while the unfortunate civilians to whom the clothes belong would be strung up for assisting us to escape, whether they did it knowingly or otherwise. Time for more amateur burglar work when we're on Dutch soil. That's my opinion. You see, if we cross the frontier in uniform we'll be interned. I remember——"
"Look!" ejaculated the A.P., pointing in the direction of the farmhouse.
Making their way across the fields were about a hundred people, men and women, herded together in rough military formation and escorted by grey-coated German infantry. The civilians were on their way to forced labour in the fields. Woe betide the luckless Belgian, male or female, who showed the faintest resentment, or lagged behind. Blows and kicks were administered with impartial severity by the brutal guards, while some did not hesitate to prod the helpless human cattle with the butt-ends of their rifles.