At another place and under different circumstances this meeting would
have been a most ordinary and commonplace event, but, somehow, in the
shadowed and deserted farmhouse it seemed to have imparted to it a
curiously dramatic effect.
It was Peur Jamais who broke a rather intense and awkward silence.
“Hello! You are here after all!” he cried.
“Ah! So it is some of my young friends, the aviateurs Americaines!”
exclaimed the peasant. His manner was that of a man who had been
startled by an unlooked-for intrusion, and, in consequence, felt
considerably displeased. “In France, mes amis, before entering a
dwelling one usually knocks.”
“So we do when we enter a dwelling,” said Peur Jamais, airily. “But what
in the world are you doing here?”
“And, may I inquire, what in the world are you doing here?”
“We came to see you.”
“You came to see me! How did you get here?”
Thereupon George Glenn, who had a more fluent command of French than
Bobby, smilingly explained.
“But, you must remember, people cannot go everywhere they please without
knowing that they have the right,” said the peasant, chidingly.
“Well, since we’re here we’re here,” said Peur Jamais. “However,
Monsieur, you certainly can’t be staying in a place like this?”
“I believe I have not as yet given any information as to my place of
residence.” The Frenchman’s tone clearly conveyed a hint that he was
annoyed at the curiosity which Bobby displayed. “Houses are like men,
mon ami: they live their allotted time, and then their days are done.”
“Well, come on, Georgie, let us take a look at the old place,” cried
Peur Jamais.
And Bobby, with a merry laugh, started for the adjoining room.
But his passage was unexpectedly blocked.
[Illustration: His passage was unexpectedly blocked]
The peasant had stepped in front of him, saying in a firm tone:
“Must I remind you, my young friend, of what I said just a few moments
ago?”
Bobby was surprised—so much surprised, indeed, that for an instant he
stared at the peasant without speaking; and his scrutiny was so
searching, so earnest, that the man, as though finding it either
annoying or disconcerting, moved toward a shadowy corner of the room.
“But what have you got to say about it?” blurted out Peur Jamais, at
length. “It isn’t your house; so I’d like to know why we mayn’t go
up-stairs?”
“Like good soldiers, we must sometimes obey commands without knowing the
reasons for their being given,” said the peasant, gravely. “So I am sure
you will consider me neither impolite nor unobliging if I refrain from
speaking further on the subject.”
“Certainly, Monsieur,” put in George, quickly. “We have no wish to
intrude. Come on, Bobby.”
Peur Jamais, however, his face wearing a rather curious expression,
began to interrogate the Frenchman, beginning with this rather unusual
question:
“What’s the best time to plant potatoes?”
The peasant smiled genially.
“Are you thinking of starting a farm?” he queried.
“No; I am merely a seeker after information.”
“Then I would advise you to buy a copy of some agricultural paper which
treats such questions exhaustively. And now, if you will pardon me, I
will say _au revoir_!”
“No objections, I’m sure!” grumbled Bobby. “I hope your farm prospers.
It’s quite a hard life, isn’t it?”
“That depends upon a man’s health, strength and temperament,” countered
the peasant, in an unruffled tone. “Goodbye!”
He laid just enough emphasis on the last words to cause the boys to nod
and then walk slowly outside.
They had progressed but a few yards when Bobby began to laugh and
chuckle in a most peculiar manner. Then his face suddenly became grave
and stern.
“Georgie, I think I’ve made a discovery—quite an astonishing discovery,
too,” he exclaimed. “That man is as much a peasant as either you or I.
He’s merely a bit of human camouflage; he’s masquerading—do you get
me?—masquerading! And what’s the answer?”
Peur Jamais’ brow was knit. His hands were clenched.
“I am willing to admit that just now he did not either speak or act
exactly like a peasant,” said George.
“You’ve said something, Georgie,” declared Bobby, very earnestly.
“Listen!” As they walked slowly, side by side, he gripped George Glenn’s
arm. “Ever since that night old Père Goubain talked to us about spies
I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open. Well, do you want to know what
I think the answer is?—that mysterious peasant is a spy—yes sir, a
confounded spy. Why has he been nosing around the aviation camp? Why
didn’t he want us to go up-stairs? Oh yes, it’s all as clear as day. Who
knows—it may even have been he who was the means of sending those
bombing machines to spill a little fireworks on the camp!”
By this time the two had reached the road, and Bobby stopped and leaned
against the fence.
“It strikes me that this hasn’t been such a mild adventure, after all,”
he continued, with increasing vehemence. “And through it we may be the
means of ridding France of a dangerous enemy; just think of it—you and
I, Georgie! I can almost hear the commander saying: ‘My brave and loyal
friends, in the name of my countrymen, I thank you!’”
“Can you also see the medals pinned to our manly breasts?” asked the
other, quizzically.
“I’m not joking, Georgie.”
“I’m sure you’re not. You look just as earnest as if Captain Von
Richtofen and his red planes had come over to pay us their respects.”
Peur Jamais sniffed.
“At any rate it isn’t going to be a laughing matter for some one,” he
asserted, grimly. “Pretty smart old chap, that! ‘Buy a copy of some
agricultural paper,’ eh! No doubt he’s chuckling now at the way he
pulled off those evasive answers. But evasions don’t go with court
martials.”
“You are certainly correct there,” acquiesced his companion.
“By George, Georgie, you’re an aggravating chap!” exploded Bobby. “By
the way you act one might think that this great discovery was of no more
importance than reading an agricultural paper. Wake up! You’re right
here on earth, and not up among the clouds!”
“I’m trying to do a little discreet thinking before indulging in any
indiscreet remarks,” said George. “You know, as Longfellow says: ‘Things
are not always what they seem.’”
“Well, I declare! Indiscreet talking, indeed!” almost shouted Peur
Jamais. “I suppose your idea is to let the old bird alone, eh?”
“As yet, I haven’t a very clear idea of what my idea on the subject is,”
returned George, with a smile.
“And I have such a clear idea of what my idea is that it fairly dazzles
me. Great Julius Cæsar!——”
Peur Jarnais blurted out this exclamation with considerable force, and
as he certainly could have neither seen nor heard anything to justify
its utterance George very naturally demanded an explanation.
“Oh, it’s nothing that would be likely to interest you,” returned Bobby,
sarcastically. “Some rather odd thoughts about Jason Hamlin just
happened to pop into my mind.” And then, as though ruminating to
himself, he added: “Oh, yes, I’m mighty glad we took this walk. It may
have an astonishing sequel.”
George pressed him for an explanation, but Bobby merely replied:
“One of these days you’ll find out.”
“But just think of all the suspense I’ll have to endure,” said George,
lightly.
Thereupon the march was resumed.
And notwithstanding the fact that both boys were in the uniform of the
flying corps they were occasionally obliged by the ever-vigilant
sentries to show their credentials.
It was after one of these experiences that Bobby thoughtfully remarked:
“I can’t understand how, with all their care, that old would-be peasant
was able to pull off the trick.”
“What trick?” asked George, innocently.
“Trying to kid me, eh?” jeered Peur Jarnais. “But I’m the original kid
that can’t be kidded.”
Toward late afternoon, seeing that a storm was approaching, the two took
counsel and decided that it might be better to retrace their steps.
“I prefer my shower baths taken in the regular way,” remarked Bobby. “By
the looks of it, I should say the weather is going from bad to worse.”
“And we’ll have to move quickly if we expect to escape it,” commented
the other.
During the entire trip George had many times felt twinges of anxiety in
regard to his chum Don Hale, which he found quite impossible to cast
aside. Acting as an escort over a hostile territory was a very dangerous
thing for a new pilot to undertake. He could recall many men who had
failed to return from such journeys, some of whom were probably
languishing in a German detention camp.
Quite a number of the Lafayette Escadrille were at the villa when the
boys arrived. But George Glenn found that he was unable to join in the
general fun and jollity.
The storm was very severe indeed; and during its height George, unable
to bear the suspense any longer, went to the telephone and called up the
bureau on the aviation grounds.
“Hello! Is Don Hale there?” he asked.
A pang shot through him as the answer came back:
“No; neither he nor Albert returned with the rest of the escort.”
“Did not return with the rest of the escort!” gasped George. He felt a
peculiar dryness come into his throat and into his heart a sinking
feeling. “Were the escorting machines attacked?” he asked.
“Yes; there was a lively scrimmage.”
“Great Scott! This is terrible!” murmured George. Then, speaking into
the transmitter again, he asked, weakly: “Have you no news of them at
all?”
“None whatever,” came the response. “We have telephoned to the
observation post at the front, but they can tell us nothing. Hale,
however, has been given credit for preventing the destruction of the
Caudron machine.”
By this time several others were crowding around. All had become
accustomed to tragic happenings and the occasional disappearance of some
of their members; yet every fresh event of the kind brought with it the
same distressing pangs.
“This is bad news, indeed!” exclaimed Victor Gilbert. “Poor Don Hale!
Poor Albert! I wonder—I do wonder what could have happened to them!”
“I hope it will not be the official communique that tells us,” said
George, gloomily, as he replaced the telephone on the hook.