But clearly fate was against their seeing anything of the battle that morning. They were still going fast, traveling through a wooded country that alternated with open stretches, where they could catch a glimpse of the far-off fight, when there came a sudden ominous sound:

Bang!

“There’s a shot,” cried Bill, looking round with alarm on his face.

“That was no shot,” returned Tom with a rueful grin, “it was one of the tires blowing out.”

“Pop—bang—air all out—pump her up—hard work—too bad,” exploded Pottle.

“Fritz, I’ll be jiggered if you don’t talk like a tire going on the fritz yourself,” laughed Tom, as he succeeded in slowing the car down on a gentle grade by reversing the engine and then stopping at the bottom.

“Fritz—German name—don’t use it in Belgium—think you’re a spy—then you’ll be on the fritz,” sputtered Pottle.

The car was brought to a standstill opposite a neat white farmhouse approached by an avenue of slender dark poplars. A big dog bayed as the car stopped, but there was no other sign of life about the place except some chickens pecking and scratching in the dooryard. In the background were yellow stacks, for the harvest had just been gathered. It made a pretty, contented scene in contrast with the turbulent experiences through which the boys had passed only recently.

But they did not spend much time comparing the rural peace with the unrest of the cities in the war area. There was work for them all to do. First the brake was mended by replacing a broken bolt that had caused the trouble that almost ended tragically for them. Then came the fitting of a new “shoe” and tube, at which they all helped by turns.

The work took some time, and at its completion they were all dusty, hot, and very thirsty.

“I’d give a lot for a good drink of cold water or milk right now,” puffed Tom, resting from his exertions with the tire pump. “What do you say if we go up to that farmhouse and see if we can buy something to drink?”

“Oh, for an ice cream soda,” sighed Bill.

“You might as well wish for lemonade in the Sahara desert,” scoffed Tom. “They wouldn’t know an ice cream soda here if they met it.”

Laughing and chatting, they approached the house, walking up the avenue. But as they neared it, their cheerfulness appeared to receive a check. No indication of life but those mentioned appeared about the place. It was silent and shuttered. The stable seemed to be empty. No farm wagons stood about.

Repeated knockings at the door failed to produce anyone.

“There’s a well yonder,” said Tom Jukes. “What do you say if we help ourselves?”

“We’ll have to, I guess,” agreed Jack. “Everyone about the place must have been scared away by the battle.”

“Or more probably the men were called to arms and the women have gone to some place of safety,” was Bill’s opinion.

A great earthenware vessel stood by the well brink and they refreshed themselves from this with long draughts of cold, clear water.

“That’s better,” declared Tom, as he set down the pitcher after a second application from it. “Now let’s be getting on, for we’ve got to find another road back.”

“Wait a minute—great chance—deserted farm—men at war—women flee in haste leaving faithful dog!” exclaimed Pottle, unslinging his camera.

“Well, hurry up and get through with your old picture box,” conceded Tom, “and, by the way, you might let that dog loose. Poor creature, he’ll surely starve to death tied up like that.”

Although the dog was a ferocious-looking animal, he seemed to know that the boys meant to give him his liberty, for he allowed them to take off his chain without any opposition and went to a small stream that flowed behind the house to slake his thirst.

This had hardly been done, and Pottle had taken a few snaps, when down the road came a furious galloping and a squadron of Belgian cavalry appeared, spurring for their lives, while behind came hoarse shouts and shots.

“Great Scott! We’re in for it now!” exclaimed Tom in a dismayed voice; “a flanking party must have attacked those fellows and driven them back.”

The squadron, a small one, and probably a scouting party, galloped past the house without even noticing the boys and the auto standing in the road. It was plain they were hard pressed. They had hardly gone when another body of horsemen appeared. They wore gray uniforms. Their metal helmets were covered with canvas with the number of their troop stencilled on it in large figures. Each man carried a lance with a gleaming point. Like those they pursued they swept by without paying attention to anything but the pursuit.

“Uhlans!” exclaimed Tom. “I hope we haven’t blundered into the thick of this thing.”

They all stopped to listen. The noise of the pursuit had died out, but now more hoof beats could be heard approaching rapidly.