g enough to clean the grit out of his engine parts.

It was now nearly four o'clock in the morning, and his instructions were
to reach Dieppe not later than five. He knew, from his own experience,
that transports always discharge their thronging human cargoes early in
the morning, and that every minute after five o'clock would increase the
likelihood of his finding the soldiers already gone ashore and separated
for the journeys to their various destinations. To reach Dieppe after
the departure of the soldiers was simply unthinkable to Tom. Whatever
excuse there might have been to the authorities for his failure, that
also he could not allow to enter his thoughts. He had been trusted to do
something and he was going to do it.

Perhaps it was this dogged resolve which deterred him from doing
something which he had thought of doing; that is, acquainting the
authorities at Aumale with his plight and letting them wire on to
Dieppe. Surely the wires between Aumale and the coast must be working,
but suppose----

Suppose the Germans should demolish those wires with a random shot from
some great gun such as the monster which had bombarded Paris at a
distance of seventy miles. Such a random shot might demolish Tom Slade,
too, but he did not think of that. What he thought of chiefly was the
inglorious role he would play if, after shifting his responsibility, he
should go riding into Dieppe only to find that the faithful dots and
dashes had done his work for him. Then again, suppose the wires should
be tapped--there were spies everywhere, he knew that.

Whatever might have been the part of wisdom and caution, he was well
past Aumale before he allowed himself to realize that he was taking
rather a big chance. If there were floods in one place there might be
floods in another, but----

He banished the thought from his mind. Tom Slade, motorcycle
dispatch-bearer, had always regarded the villages he rushed through with
a kind of patronizing condescension. His business had always been
between some headquarters or other and some point of destination, and
between these points he had no interest. He and _Uncle Sam_ had a
little pride in these matters. French children with clattering wooden
shoes had clustered about him when he paused, old wives had called,
"_Vive l'Amerique!_" from windows and, like the post-boy of old, he had
enjoyed the prestige which was his. Should he, Tom Slade, surrender or
ask for help in one of these mere inci