About a quarter of a mile farther along the road a chasseur passed. Reining in his horse he addressed the corporal.
"What, then, has happened, Pierre?"
The Belgian non-com. shrugged his shoulders.
"Only two German tourists, Gaston," he replied. "They have had an accident."
"German!" exclaimed Kenneth indignantly. "You are wrong. We are English."
"Can Monsieur produce proof?" asked the corporal.
Fortunately both lads possessed permits de circulation—documents issued to foreign tourists on entering French territory, and which they had not given up at the douane at Givet. On each document was pasted a photograph of the bearer and particulars of his name, nationality, occupation, and place of abode.
In less than a minute the indifferent demeanour of the crowd underwent a complete change. Amid shouts of "Vivent les Anglais!" several of the Belgians took possession of the two motor-cycles, and, in spite of frequent wobblings, pushed them right into the town.
Here another set-back greeted the tourists. The repairer gravely informed them that a new magneto was absolutely necessary, and since he had not one in stock he would be obliged to send to Brussels for it.
Under the circumstances an enforced stay would have to be made at Huy, so the lads booked a room at a modest but cheerful-looking hotel. The town and environs seemed delightfully picturesque, and, although Kenneth chafed under the delay, both lads eventually admitted they might have been hung up in many a worse place than Huy.