It was on the second day after the British dispatch-riders' return with the mail-escort. Captain Planchenoît, who had already fully recognized the intrepidity and common sense of the two lads, had been instructed by his Colonel to communicate with the isolated post of Cortenaeken, and he could decide upon no fitter messengers than Kenneth Everest and his friend Rollo Barrington.
"You will observe that the dispatch is at present unsealed," continued Captain Planchenoît. "You must commit the text to memory. Should you be in danger of capture, destroy the dispatch at all costs. It is far too important to risk being hidden, yet Major Foveneau must have, if humanly possible, written orders."
"Very good, sir," replied Kenneth, saluting.
He then went off to find his chum, whom he found cleaning his mount. Kenneth had given up cleaning his motor-cycle days ago; beyond satisfying himself that it had plenty of oil and was in good running order, he troubled nothing about its appearance. Both lads had, moreover, wrapped the handle-bars in strips of brown linen, while the remaining bright parts had been covered with dull-grey paint.
"It's Cortenaeken this time," announced Kenneth. "Goodness knows how we get to the place, for there doesn't seem to be a vestige of a road leading to it, according to the map. Here's the dispatch—sounds important, doesn't it? We have to commit the words to memory, in case we have to destroy the paper."
"The best thing we can do is to ride for Tirlemont and make enquiries there," suggested Rollo, handing the dispatch back to his chum. "As regards concealing the paper, we must place it somewhere where we can get at it easily. I have it: we'll stow it in your petrol tank; the stuff won't injure the paper or interfere with the writing, and if things came to the worst, you can whip it out and set fire to it."
Accordingly the dispatch, cleverly rolled, was placed inside the gauze strainer to the patrol tank, and the metal cap replaced. Five minutes later the two motor-cyclists were buzzing along the congested road at a modest twenty miles an hour, dodging between the lumbering transport wagons and the military vehicles with an agility that surprised themselves.
Presently, as they struck towards the rear of the long lines of troops, the road became less encumbered and speed was materially increased. Soon the pace reached nearly forty miles an hour, for the highway was fairly broad, and ran as straight as a Roman road as far as the eye could reach.
"Puncture!" shouted Kenneth, as the front wheel of his cycle began to slither and bump upon the pavé, the machine running nearly fifty yards before he brought up and dismounted.
A hasty examination showed that a rusty iron nail, quite six inches in length, had penetrated the tread of the tyre, while to make matters worse its point had worked out close to the rim. The offending piece of metal, catching against the front forks, had already enlarged the hole in the tread till it became a slit nearly half an inch in length.