They looked a pair of bedraggled scarecrows. The Uhlan uniforms were wet and plastered with mud. Rollo's forehead was bound round with a grimy scarf, while, to give a most realistic touch, Kenneth had tied the blood-stained handkerchief that had been applied to his chum's ankle round the lower part of his face, completely covering his mouth.
"Ready?" asked Kenneth in muffled tones. Receiving an affirmative reply from his companion, he slipped in the clutch and away the cycle glided.
"Here's trouble!" the lad thought before many yards of road had been traversed, for ahead was a rapidly-nearing cloud of dust that evidently betokened the approach of cavalry or horse artillery.
"Troops of sorts coming," he informed his companion.
"Thanks, quite comfortable," was Rollo's inconsequential reply; for the handkerchief round Kenneth's mouth, the noise of the engine, and the rush of air as the motor-cycle tore along prevented the passenger from hearing the information given, while Rollo was unable to look ahead.
"Germans in sight!" yelled Kenneth.
This time Rollo understood. Resisting the temptation to look over his companion's shoulder, he drooped his head, as becoming the rôle of a badly-wounded man.
The on-coming troops turned out to be neither cavalry nor artillery, but a motor section, including a machine-gun mounted on an armoured side-car. Fortunately the pace as Rollo and Kenneth tore past was such that recognition or detection was out of the question.
"Here we are," announced Rollo a few seconds later.
Kenneth quickly pulled up. As he did so he gave a hurried look around. There were no signs of more Germans, while the motor-cyclist detachment was almost out of sight.