Although Kenneth could not understand the other's words, their meaning was clear enough. He had been peremptorily told to make tracks and deliver the message somewhere towards the west, where the German lines were. With another salute he wheeled, and returned to his companion. Not daring to speak a word, he assisted Rollo to his seat on the carrier and set the motor in action.
"We're in luck, old man," said Kenneth, when they were well out of sight of the disabled Taube. "If we are spotted by any patrols this letter will pass us through. It's evidently a report to the colonel of one of the regiments in the fighting-line."
"Don't you think you had better drop me?"
"Drop you—what on earth for?"
"You might get through as a German dispatch-rider; but with a supposed wounded man going towards the firing-line? Looks a bit suspicious, eh?"
"No fear; we'll stick together. If one gets through, the other must; otherwise we'll both go under. Hello! Here's a road."
It was a sharp corner as they swung from the path to the highway. Kenneth wisely slowed down, and found himself almost in collision with a German patrol.
The men were evidently exhausted. Two were standing in the centre of the road, and leaning heavily upon their rifles. Half a dozen more, having discarded their rolled coats and cumbersome knapsacks, were reclining on a bank. The two faced about on hearing the approach of the motor. The others sprang to their feet and seized their rifles.
Producing the buff envelope Kenneth waved it frantically, at the same time increasing speed. The Germans stood back, the sergeant grunting a few words as the two lads flashed by. No bullets whistled past them; the aviator's dispatch had proved a safe passport.
For the next two miles they were continually passing troops, some going in the same direction, accompanied by heavily-laden supply wagons; others, wounded in action, painfully making their way towards the nearest field hospital.