“You may get up.”
The reply was an ugly snarl. But the man, who wore a pilot’s insignia, stood up.
“Mind leading the way?” Brand said to Dave.
“Certainly not.” Turning his back on the prisoner Dave started toward the farmhouse.
“All right, you. March!” Brand snapped. The prisoner followed Dave.
With Brand bringing up the rear, they had not gone a dozen paces when from somewhere, not far distant, there came a most astounding roar.
Starting in sudden shock, Brand all but dropped his weapon.
“Wha—what’s that?” Dave’s voice trembled as he came to a dead stop.
“That’s old Jock! Something terrible is happening. Here!” Brand thrust the automatic into Dave’s hand. “You know how to use it. Press the handle, that’s all. March him down into the pasture. Don’t hesitate to shoot. This is war—our war!” He was gone. As he dashed through the brush, Brand felt his blood fairly boiling in his veins. “If anything serious has happened to good old Jock,” he thought savagely, “if one of those devils harms the old man I’ll tear him to pieces with my bare hands!”
Since no further sound reached him, guided only by that one agonizing roar, he made his way as best he could along the slope. Then breaking through a cluster of young beech-trees, he stopped short to stare. The little tableau before him seemed unreal. It might have been taken from some picture.