Three-quarters of the greatly feared Chemin de Mort were passed in safety. Don Hale's spirits rose still higher. The rain was finally beginning to slacken, for which he felt profoundly thankful. The water was running off his khaki uniform in streams; but discomfort held no place in his mind; all his thoughts were on that bend ahead which would take them into a safer zone.
And, suddenly, he almost jumped from his seat. Again a terrible blast had sounded—not ahead but to the rear.
Where had that shell landed? Was it on the road?
Chase was sitting bolt upright.
"By George! That's the time we nearly caught it!" he shouted.
Don nodded.
"A few moments, more or less, play a great part in this kind of game," he exclaimed, grimly.
But now the bend in the road was right before them, and presently Don gave an exclamation expressive of the keenest satisfaction. The ambulanciers need have no further concern, for the present at least, about the Chemin de Mort—at last, it lay behind them.
The young driver was becoming so much easier in his mind that he began to think of a letter he intended to write to his chum, George Glenn. And wouldn't a description of this wild ride in the stormy night make good reading! The boy thought so—he even chuckled softly to himself, as his mind continued to dwell on the subject.
And then, just as he was about to mention the matter to Chase, there came another appalling roar—a roar and crash so terrific, so frightful in its intensity that the two ambulanciers were almost hurled from their seats.