The firing had now ceased. The last shell—the most destructive of all—had reduced the farm-house to a heap of ruins. Above ground, hardly one brick or stone adhered to another, while beneath the mound of ruins the two British lads were entombed, and apparently doomed to a lingering death.
CHAPTER XVII
The Way Out
For nearly a quarter of an hour, though it seemed like a long-drawn night, Kenneth and Rollo remained silent. Gradually the air became purer as the fumes escaped through the crevices in the brickwork. It was the darkness they dreaded most—a darkness that could almost be felt. It seemed to have weight, to press upon their eyes.
"I wish I had a match," whispered Kenneth.
Rollo felt in his pockets. It was, as he expected, a vain quest, for when in the hands of the Germans he had been rigorously searched, and every article in his possession had been confiscated.
"This is the limit," said Kenneth dolorously. "I'd much rather be shot in action. Here we may be snuffed out and no one will be a bit the wiser. We may not be found for years, perhaps never."
"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed his companion. "It's bad enough without rubbing it in."
"I wasn't."