Gordon and I were glad of each other’s company, though neither of us said much about it; for between some folks there is no need to say things. That night we walked rapidly; for my comrade’s trained senses enabled him to see and travel in the dark without missing the right direction. Sometimes we kept the road in view for guidance, but he seemed never to have doubts of the right road.
When daylight came, we found a hiding place in what, at first, we thought was a quarry, but soon saw excavations that told us it had been used by both the French and German soldiers for bomb proofs and other military service. We halted and made a breakfast from our tins and wheat bread, and lay there for most of the day, taking turns in standing guard, while the other slept.
I think that I was, possibly, doing more than my share of sleeping, when Gordon awakened me, and with a motion to keep silent, said in a whisper: “There are some folks near here—quite a lot of them—sounds like women—and I think they are French. But as we used to say in the Medical School, ‘Don’t be sure of your subject until you are certain it is a dead one.’ So you stay here until I find out what it means.”
It was a full half-hour before he returned, saying, “There is a nest of people in an underground dugout. I reckon that the question before the house is, shall we make their acquaintance, or skip them.”
“Can you speak French?” I inquired.
“Not ten cents’ worth,” he replied. “Can you?”
“Well,” I said, following his simile, “about twenty cents’ worth.”
“A few words,” he observed, “are sometimes better than a sermon.”
“All right,” I said, “we will chance it.”
“We’d better doll up a little first,” suggested Gordon. “You’d look better to get them weeds and burs out of your hair, chum.”