"Hold on!" shouted Rollo; but Kenneth, unaware of the call, was out of ear-shot, and doing a good thirty or forty miles an hour.
Leaving his engine still running, Rollo dismounted and made his way towards the building. Shots were whistling overhead. He crouched as he hastened, for he had not yet acquired the contempt for the screech of a bullet that the old soldier has, knowing that with the whizzing of the missile that particular danger has passed.
Lying against the bullet-spattered wall was the old sergeant. A fragment of shrapnel, rebounding from the masonry, had fractured his left ankle.
There was no time for first-aid. The Germans were now within three hundred yards of the abandoned trench. Throwing his arms round the sergeant's body, Rollo lifted him from the ground, then kneeling, he managed to transfer him across his back. Fortunately the wounded man was not very heavy, and the lad, staggering under his burden, carried him to the place where he had left his motor-cycle.
Just then came the rapid pop-pop of another motor-bike. Kenneth, having discovered that his chum was no longer in his company, had returned.
"Give me a push off, old man," panted Rollo, as he set his burden across the carrier and stood astride his steed.
In went the clutch; Kenneth, running by the side of the cycle for a few yards, steadied the wounded sergeant, who was clinging desperately to the young dispatch-rider.
"All right, let go!" shouted Rollo.
The bike wobbled dangerously under the unusual burden. The sergeant's grip wellnigh destroyed the lad's power of command on the steering. The zipp of a bullet did much to add to the difficulty, and momentarily Rollo thought that nothing could save him from toppling into the ditch.
"Let go my arms and catch hold of my waist," he shouted desperately. The sergeant fortunately understood and obeyed; the motor-cycle began to recover its balance, and as Rollo opened the throttle and increased speed it settled down to its normal condition.