"Bit of sheer hard luck," he replied, in answer to Derek's question as to how he came to be hit. "Had a chance of a lifetime. Caught a whole Boche battalion out in the open and started machine-gunning the bounders. Put the wind up them properly; they scooted like hares. Used up all my ammunition and, like Oliver Twist, came back for more. I got more—of a different sort. A bullet through the arm—that didn't worry me very much—and then a regular crump. Thought the old 'bus was blown to bits. Felt like it anyhow. But she wasn't, so I managed to pancake just behind some tanks and here I am. Who's the old bird?"
"The old bird," repeated Derek, "is a pal of yours."
"Don't know him," replied Rippondene, raising his head and looking across to the other stretcher. "Haven't had much to do with fellows in the Tank Corps, and so I'll swear I haven't met him. Bet you a sovereign on it."
"Don't throw good money away," protested Daventry. "This is Count von Peilfell."
"Rot!" ejaculated the Flight-Commander.
"Fact," declared Derek; "and I'll explain why he's in this rig."
"Another time, old thing," said Rippondene feebly. "I'm feeling jolly rummy. I'm——"
"He's fainted, sir," announced the Corporal in charge of the party. "We'll soon fix him up all right when we get to the dressing-station. And, sir——"
"Yes; what is it?"
"It looks as if there's something wrong with this Hun, sir."