"Now what do you propose doing?" asked the Captain. "As for us, we must push on. We have an important reconnaissance to make."
"We want to rejoin our regiment—the 9th of the Line, sir," replied Kenneth.
The officer smiled grimly.
"I regret, messieurs, that I cannot help you in that direction," he said. "Perhaps the best thing you can do is to make your way to Brussels, and there await news of your regiment. Should anyone question you, say that I—Captain Doublebois—have instructed you. Is there anything else?"
"We've run short of petrol, sir," announced Rollo, pointing in the direction of the motor-cycle, the handlebars of which were just visible above the edge of the ditch.
"Parbleu! Petrol is now as precious as one's life-blood. Nevertheless, I think we may be able to spare you a litre. Corporal Fougette," he shouted, addressing the non-commissioned officer in charge of the motor machine-gun, "measure out a litre of petrol for these messieurs—good measure, not a drop more or less."
The Captain stood by while Kenneth brought up the cycle and had the petrol poured into the tank.
"Now, messieurs," he continued, "this will suffice to take you as far as our nearest depot. After that, proceed to Brussels. I'll warrant you'll be in need of a rest, but there will be plenty to occupy your minds, or my name is not Captain Raoul Doublebois. But take my advice, messieurs, and get rid of those accursed uniforms!"