He stopped and scanned the surrounding countryside. As far as the driving rain permitted the land presented a flat appearance without any outstanding characteristics—a treeless expanse of mud.
The smith must have guessed the lad's perplexity, for a curious look overspread his coarse features.
"Herr leutnant has lost his way?" enquired he. "Or, perhaps, the machine has flown off?"
"Silence!" exclaimed Dick fiercely. This time there was no need to impersonate the irate officer: he was genuinely furious with the fellow.
"Some one signalling, sir, on our right," declared the Tommy, whereat the smith, either surprised at the Englishman's audacity or anxious to vent his spleen upon the luckless prisoner, stooped, picked up a handful of mud and hurled it at him.
"They are our friends," exclaimed Dick joyously. "Keep yourself under control a few minutes longer. We mustn't let this low-down rascal smell a rat until we're ready for action again. May as well make him useful."
"Stop there till I tell you," ordered the lad, addressing the German. "You can keep a sharp eye on your assistant from where you are standing."
Then, bidding the Tommy follow, he hurried across the intervening hundred yards that separated him from his comrades. Unbeknown to all, Dick had actually passed within almost hailing distance of the battleplane without seeing it or being seen by Athol and the sergeant, until the hollow in which the machine rested was well on his right hand.
"Whom have you here?" asked Blake.
"A British soldier, hired out as a sort of slave to the village blacksmith," explained Dick. "We'll have to keep up the deceit until we set the rod in position; then it will be a huge joke to enlighten the rascally Hun on certain points."