he could, too. Freddy
might be younger, and a bit shorter, and weigh less, but there was no
difference in the quality of his fighting spirit, or of the courage in
his heart. And so Dave kept on climbing upward, and upward through the
black night until finally ... and it seemed as though a thousand years
had passed by ... he finally reached the crest. He staggered along the
flat crest for a few yards and then sank wearily down on the soft earth.
Freddy dropped down beside him, and for a long time there was no sound
between them save the sounds of their labored breathing.

Eventually, Dave pushed himself up to a sitting position, wiped his
dripping face on the sleeve of his shirt, and let out a long sigh.

"Gee, am I out of condition for track!" he breathed. "That was plenty
tough. I thought we'd never make it. You okay, Freddy?"

The English youth groaned softly as he sat up.

"I guess so," he murmured and sucked in great gulps of cool night air.
"But I certainly hope we don't have to do that often. You can't see very
much from here, can you? I guess they're not taking chances on showing
many lights in case our bombers come over. I'd like very much to see a
big bomb drop on that Colonel Stohl, though. He deserves one!"

Dave chuckled and instantly felt much better. Freddy might be dead on
his feet, but he still had the old fight.

"Two, one for me," he said and stared down at the town.

In all there were not more than two dozen lights showing, and at least
half of them were the shaded lights of army cars and trucks moving along
the one main street of the town. If there were others they were blotted
out by the trees.

"About that map, Freddy," Dave said presently in a low voice. "I think
this is Estalle, myself, but that's not much of a help. I mean, I
couldn't figure how far we are from the Belgian lines. I guess it can't
be very far, though. They only started the invasion yesterday morning,
so they can't have gone very deep into the country."

"I don't agree with that, Dave," Freddy said. "The German blitzkrieg in
Poland made as much as eighty and ninety miles in a day. Besides, my
father taught me a lot about marking army maps. Of course I don't know
what _all_ of those markings meant on the Colonel's map, but I'm pretty
sure those little yellow pins represented their advanced armored
scouting units."

"But good gosh, they were as far west as Brussels and Charleroi!" Dave
gasped. "That's miles away. What abo