Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the motor began to falter. Then it "picked up", ran for about a quarter of a minute and slowed down again, finally coming to a dead-stop.
"No petrol," announced Rollo ruefully. "The tank is empty."
"Rot!" ejaculated his companion incredulously. "It was full when we started, and I'll swear we've done nothing like sixty miles on it yet."
Kenneth examined the gauge, then turned to his chum.
"Sorry, old man," he said. "I'm wrong. The stuff's all gone."
Further examination revealed the unpleasant fact that there was a small leak between the piping and the carburettor. Unnoticed, a quantity of the petrol had run to waste.
"It's a case of push," continued Kenneth. "How's your foot? Fit for a tramp? If not, you may as well get on the saddle and I'll run you along."
Although young Barrington's ankle was paining considerably, he sturdily refused to take advantage of his companion's offer. From experience he knew that pushing a motor was no light task. Kenneth might be capable of giving him a lift, but Rollo would not trespass upon his friend's generous conduct to that extent.
On and on they plodded, Rollo resting one hand on the saddle and striving to conceal his limp. Presently a practically ruined village came in sight. Not only had it been heavily bombarded, but subsequent fires had increased the work of destruction. Thick columns of smoke were rising high into the sultry air, while above the roar of the flames could be heard the excited tones of human voices.
"The villagers are trying to save the little that remains of their homes," said Kenneth. "They'll be able to give us some information as to where we can pick up the Belgian troops. Perhaps, though I doubt it, we may be also able to procure petrol."