"Poor chap! It's pretty hard on him," he reflected.
Every glare from the heavens disclosed the dripping Chase huddled up in his seat, with a curious, strained expression resting on his face. His appearance suggested that of a person who, finding himself in a terrible situation, has lost every particle of hope.
Don Hale's reflections concerning Manning, however, abruptly ceased.
A bright gleaming flash of light close to the ground, instantly followed by a terrific concussion, made his heart fairly leap. A high-explosive shell had fallen not a hundred yards away. It was only what might have been expected, yet, nevertheless, it both startled and frightened him.
But the aftermath proved even more startling; the lead horses of a six-horse team attached to a returning "empty" began to rear, buck and plunge, in spite of the most strenuous efforts of the postilion driver to control them.
Even above the noises of the storm the ambulanciers could hear the animals' quick, terrified snorts and their iron-shod hoofs crashing down in the mud and water. Instinctively, Don Hale realized that they were turning across the road.
The Red Cross car came to a halt with a jerk. Quick action alone had prevented a collision.
Across the inky heavens darted another forked tongue of electric flame; another and another followed, and in the sustained, blinding glare the boys saw the horses pawing the air in dangerous proximity to the front of the machine. Momentarily Don Hale expected a crash.
"I told you! I told you!" shouted Chase.
A few instants of anxiety—of keen suspense—then came the opportunity for which the boy was looking—the fractious steeds swerved to one side. Ambulance Number Eight shot forward on the second, violently grazed the body of the nearest horse and continued, while the shouts of the postilion driver became quickly drowned in the roar of the rain.