“Don’t ask me,” said Jack, with a shiver. “Those who snatched up what they could get of their possessions and trekked out along the road leading to the south were wise, after all.”
“Yes,” continued his chum, “they may suffer from the cold, but as they get further down into France they’ll have kind friends raised up for them on every hand. I wonder will the burgomaster live through it all, brave old chap that he was to decide to stay and share the fate of those who chose to hide in the cellars.”
“And little Jacques,” added the other boy, “what will happen to him with all those shells bursting, and the British and Germans fighting hand to hand in the streets of the village? I’m afraid the poor little fellow won’t be able to trap his hated Prussian as easy as he expected.”
Jack turned to observe some feature of the wonderful panorama disclosed when rifts occurred in the eddying smoke curtain. It all seemed to have a decided fascination for him, so that he would surely regret leaving that eyrie presently, in order to please his cousin.
Even as he looked, almost holding his breath with eagerness, there came a strange whining sound in the air. Something hurtled past not fifty feet overhead. Then came a terrible crash that almost knocked both of the boys down, and caused Amos to cling desperately to the railing of the cupola lookout.
“That was a shell, Jack!” he gasped, when he could catch his breath.
“It certainly was,” declared the other. “The Germans are using this tower as a range finder, and we had a narrow escape that time.”
CHAPTER XII.
FROM THE CUPOLA LOOKOUT.
“I should say it was lucky!” assented Amos, with an intake of breath; “did you see how it shattered that tree top when it burst? Looks like a bolt of lightning had struck it. What would have happened to both of us if the time limit of explosion had been just a second less?”