The words of self-abuse seemed to help a little. At least they made him angry at his own momentary weakness. Fists clenched and jaw set, he wheeled around and went down the north side of the hill and toward Antwerp. At the end of half an hour he had reached the first of the outskirt streets, and still hadn't met a living soul. Trudging wearily along the street, striving hard to act like a peasant lad who was completely lost and homeless, he kept shooting keen glances at the rows of houses on either side of the street. A few of the houses bore the marks of the Nazi air raids which had taken place before the city fell into enemy hands, but most of them were in fairly good condition. Yet as Dave peered at the fronts and saw the drawn curtains, and a boarded up door here and there, he felt pretty sure that that section of the city had been evacuated.
Street after street was the same. It was like looking at the same picture over and over again. When he paused, he could hear the faint rumble of sound from the direction of the city's center, and every now and then a flight of German planes winged by high overhead. But in the outskirts of the city all was quiet and still. With each step his wonder grew, and with each step the fingers of vague worry clutched at him more and more. For some crazy reason he was tempted a dozen times to wheel around and retrace his steps in a hurry. But Sixteen Rue Chartres was like a magnet that drew him toward it and refused to let him retreat.
Then suddenly, as he swung around another corner, a squad of field grey German soldiers seemed to rise right up out of the sidewalk. A non-commissioned officer was in charge of them. He was a big man with a flat and cruel-looking face. In his right fist he clenched a Luger, and the muzzle of that Luger was pointed straight at the pit of Dave's stomach.
"Halt!" the German ordered in a savage snarl.
CHAPTER TEN
Trapped!
A moment of wild panic gripped Dave Dawson. His first impulse was to spin around and flee for his life. In the nick of time, however, cold logic made him realize the utter senselessness of such a move. He got a quick hold on himself, threw both his hands above his head and faked a display of mortal terror.
"Don't shoot!" he cried in a high shrill voice. "I have done nothing. I am lost, and I am hungry. Please do not shoot, Herr Kommandant!"
To be addressed by such a title of high rank seemed obviously to please the German, who held only a corporal's rank. He smiled and puffed out his chest a bit, and holstered his Luger.