nd troops on the march. It gave him a kick
the way the simple showing of Lieutenant Defoe's military papers cleared
the way through barrier after barrier thrown up across the road. Those
papers were as a magic charm that made officers and men alike spring to
attention and salute. And in a way they _were_ a magic charm. They had
not only been signed by the highest military authorities, but by the
President of France, himself.

Yet with all that it made him a little sad to leave Paris. He felt as
though he were running away in the face of danger. He had had lots of
fun with his Dad and Lieutenant Defoe in Paris. Swell times, and now he
was rushing away from the city. Running away because danger might come
to Paris. True, he was only obeying his father's instructions, yet he
could not rid himself of the feeling that he was running away.

From time to time he glanced at Lieutenant Defoe at the wheel of the
car. The laughter and gaiety had gone from the Frenchman's eyes. His
face was set and grim. He gripped the wheel tight with his big hands,
and every so often he flung an anxious look up into the sun filled blue
sky. Each time Dave followed his look but could see nothing. Eventually,
the question was forced from his lips.

"What's the matter, Lieutenant?" he asked. "You look worried. You think
something's going to happen?"

The French officer shrugged, and for the five hundredth time peered up
at the sky.

"Something going to happen?" he murmured. "Of course not. My neck, it is
a little stiff. It feels better when I move my head, so."

Lieutenant Defoe punctuated his words with a laugh, but that laugh did
not ring true in Dave's ears.

"You're looking for German airplanes, aren't you?" he said straight out.
"And you are worried, too, about how the army is getting along. I saw
you talking with a colonel just before we left. Did you get any news?"

"We are holding the German cows," Lieutenant Defoe said through clenched
teeth. "The English and our gallant troops are now pouring into Belgium
by the thousands. We will throw the Boche back. Yes, he shall be taught
a lesson he will not forget for a long time."

The French officer lifted one hand from the wheel, doubled it into a
rock hard fist and shook it savagely at an imaginary foe.

"This time we shall teach them a lesson, once and for all!" he cried.
"We...!"

The rest died on his lips. Rather it was changed into a cry of both
anger and surprise. At that moment