Читать книгу Our Young Aeroplane Scouts in France and Belgium. Or, Saving the Fortunes of the Trouvilles онлайн

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“I can see nothing but red!” Henri was shaking like a leaf.

Billy gave his chum a sharp tap on the cheek with the palm of his hand, hoping thus to divert Henri’s mind and restore his courage.

Billy himself had about all he could do to keep his teeth together, but, by the unselfish devotion he gave to his comrade, he overcame his fear.

“Come, Buddy,” he pleaded; “take a brace! Easy, now; there’s a way to get out of this, I know there is. Put your foot here; your hand there; steady; we’ll be off in a minute.”

By the time the boys had descended to the lower branches of the tree, Henri was once more on “even keel,” in the language of the aviator.

A long limb of the tree extended out over the road. On this the boys wormed their way to the very tip, intending to drop into the highway, recover their bicycles, and make a dash for safety across the country to the west, following the well defined trail worn smooth by the passage of ammunition wagons.

As they clung to the limb, intently listening and alert for any movement that would indicate a returning tide of battle in the immediate neighborhood, a riderless horse, a magnificent coal-black animal, carrying full cavalry equipment, came galloping down the road, urged to ever increasing speed by the whipping against its flanks of swinging holsters.