"So, I have no right, eh?" he chuckled. "You are not in your England now, my boy. But suppose you tell me all about it?"

"Very well, sir," Freddy said in a quiet dignified voice. "And you can take my word for its being the truth, too."

The English youth paused a moment and then told the story of leaving the Paris headquarters of the British Volunteer Ambulance Service, becoming separated from the others, and after many hours picking up Dave Dawson.

"And so there you are, sir," he finished up. "A very unfortunate incident, but I've already told you it was my fault."

The big German, shrugged, started to speak but checked himself and swiveled around in his chair to peer at the well marked map that took up most of the wall in back of him. Presently he turned front again and fixed his eyes on Dave.

"And you?" he grunted. "Where were you forced to leave your car? And where is this French Army lieutenant your friend mentioned?"

"I don't know where he is," Dave said. "When the German planes started shooting and bombing those refugees I...."

"One moment!" the Colonel grated harshly. "Our pilots do not shoot or bomb helpless civilians. Those were undoubtedly French planes, or British ones, made to look like German planes. Go on."

Anger rose up in Dave Dawson. He had seen those planes with his own eyes. And he knew enough about foreign planes to know that they were neither French nor British. They were German, and there were no two ways about that. He opened his mouth to hurl the lie back in the German's face, but suddenly thought better of it.

"The spot was about seventy miles north of Paris, I think," he said. "I know that a few minutes before, we had pa.s.sed through a small village named Roye. And I remember looking at my watch. It was a little after one this afternoon."

"I see," murmured the German, and an odd look seeped into his eyes. "And when you awoke it was night? You saw the ambulance of this English boy's, and he picked you up?"

"That's right, sir," Dave said with a nod.

"And so?" the German said in the same murmuring tone. "So from a little after one this afternoon until your friend picked you up you traveled over thirty miles ... _while unconscious_? You expect me to believe that?"

"I'm not telling a lie!" Dave said hotly. "You can believe what you darn well like. It's still the truth, just the same. I don't know how I got there. Maybe some pa.s.sing car picked me up, and then dumped me out thinking that I was dead. Maybe somebody took me along to rob me because of my American clothes. They might have thought I had some money, and...."

Dave slopped short at the sudden thought and started searching the pockets of his torn clothes. All he could find was a handkerchief, a broken pencil, and a bent American Lincoln penny that he carried as a lucky piece. Everything else was gone. His wallet, his money, his pa.s.sport ... everything. He looked at the Colonel in angry triumph.

"That's what happened!" he cried. "Somebody picked me up and robbed me, and then left me in that field under the trees. Good gosh! I'm broke, and I'll need money to get to England. I...."

Dave stopped short again as he saw the smile on the Colonel's face. This time it was a different kind of smile. There was nothing pleasant or fatherly about it. It was a cold, tight lipped smile, and Dave shivered a bit in spite of himself.

"You are not going to England ... yet!" the German said slowly. "There is something very funny about all this, and I mean to find out what it is. Yes, it is rather strange, I think."

"For cat's sake, why?" Dave blurted out. "We simply got lost in the dark, and that's all there is to it!"

"Exactly!" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "It is the truth. We are not even old enough to be soldiers ... unfortunately."

The German officer scowled so that his heavy black brows formed a solid line across the lower part of his forehead.

"Your sharp tongue may get you into more trouble than you think, my little Englisher!" he growled. "You had best take care. Now, we will ask some more questions. You both left Paris this morning, eh? You saw troops and tanks and things on the march?"

"Millions of them!" Freddy Farmer said quickly. "And airplanes, too. I never saw so many soldiers, or so much military equipment."

"So?" the German breathed. "You saw which way they were heading, of course?"

"Naturally," Freddy said. "They were going into Belgium, of course. And not just French troops with tanks and guns, either. There were thousands of British and Canadians. And there were more thousands from Australia and New Zealand, and South Africa. And the sky was filled with R.A.F.

and French planes. And...."

The German's booming laughter stopped Freddy. The big man shook like jelly and he was forced to blow his nose before he could speak.

"I must say I admire you, my young Englander," he said. "I suppose now we should become very frightened and order a general retreat at once, eh?"

"You will be forced to, shortly," Freddy said stiffly.

The laughter faded from the German's face and his eyes became brittle and hard.

"Germans never hear such an order, for it is never given!" he snapped.

"But, I see you want to treat this all as a little joke, eh?"

"Do you expect us to give away military information?" Dave demanded.

"It would help you a lot, boys," the officer said slyly. "You two want to get to England, don't you?"

"Not that way, we don't!" Dave said, standing up to him. "You'll get no military information out of either of us, even if we had any to give."

"Good for you, Dave!" Freddy said in a low voice. "He can't make dirty traitors out of us."

Heads up and shoulders back the two of them stared defiantly at the officer. He glared back at them for a moment and then as quick as the blink of an eye his big face broke out all smiles.

"Good, good, boys!" he cried. "I like you all the more for refusing. I wouldn't tell anything either if I should happen to be captured. All right, we will speak no more about that. But, I must make out a report.

Give me your names, and addresses. I will send word through the Red Cross to your families so they will know where you are."

"But I live in America!" Dave cried. "I'm on a trip with my father. He's in London, as I told you, but I don't know where!"

"What is his name?" the officer said and picked up a pencil. "I will have word sent to the hotel where you stopped in Paris. It will be forwarded to him wherever he is. Well?"

Dave hesitated a moment, then decided there wasn't anything else to be done about it.

"Mr. Richard C. Dawson," he said. "My name is David. Hotel de Ney, Twenty-One Rue Pa.s.sey, Paris. But, wait! He went to see the American Amba.s.sador in London. You can send word there."

That bit of information seemed to startle the German. He gave Dave a long piercing look, then nodded and scribbled on a piece of paper in front of him. In a minute he glanced up at Freddy.

"And you, Englisher?" he grunted.

"My name is Frederick Covington Farmer," Freddy said. "I live at Sixty-Four Baker Street, London, England. But, see here, sir! You don't really intend to keep us prisoners, do you? I mean, after all, you know!"

The officer laughed and shook his head.

"Keep you prisoners?" he echoed. "Of course not. But I can't very well let you go until I get proof who you are, now can I? In a very short time I shall learn if you've told me the truth. And then, if you have, I will have you put in a car and pa.s.sed through the Belgian lines. Just as simple as that, see?"

"We have told you the truth," Freddy said grimly.

"You bet we have!" Dave said.

"Then there is nothing for you to worry about," the big German chuckled.

"And now, you must be hungry, eh? Well, I shall at once see that you are taken care of and given something to eat."