"Crippled a Taube? What, pray, has a dispatch-rider to do with Taubes?" demanded Commandante Fleurus sternly. "Do you know that it is your duty to deliver messages at all costs, and in the least possible time, regardless of Taubes, Zeppelins, and the German Emperor himself?"
Kenneth did not reply. The fiery nature of the little Belgian literally consumed him. He had, however, the good sense to see that the rebuke was merited.
"Well, sir, what have you to say?"
"It was an error of judgment, sir, which I regret," said Kenneth. "We crippled the Taube as it was on the point of rising. Otherwise——"
"Were there no troops available?"
"Some lancers arrived while the Taube was burning."
The commandant turned and took hold of a telephone that stood on the table at his side.
"Send Captain Planchenoît to me," he ordered; then, leaning back in his chair, he again fixed the British lad with his beady eyes.
It was quite two minutes before the captain appeared, and the time seemed like two hours to the crestfallen Kenneth. He had yet to learn the lesson that cast-iron discipline demands, and it seemed galling that his part in crippling one of the aerial spies should be practically ignored by the man who ought to have gone into ecstasies over the news.
Presently Captain Planchenoît entered, clicked his heels and saluted, then waited his superior officer's pleasure. The captain was a smart-looking man of more than average height, with a pleasant, open countenance. He was on the intelligence staff, attached to the brigade that had been hurriedly brought up from Diest.