our place at the
machine gun, and shoot down anything that opposes us!"

"Mad! Quite mad!" John and Carstairs said together, but they obeyed with
amazing promptness, and in a minute the car was spinning down the road
at a great rate. But Wharton leaning forward and looking with red eyes
in black rims, saw nothing they passed. He had instead a vision of the
three arriving at some point far away with the prince's dispatches, and
of English and French generals thanking those who had come in time to
save them.

Carstairs drove with a steady hand, but he was his normal self now. He
had seen that their supply of gasoline was sufficient to last a while,
and he was content for the present with a moderate rate of speed. If
they were pursued again then he could make another great burst, but he
did not consider it likely that a third force of the foe would appear.
They must be getting beyond the vanguard of the German invasion.

John sat beside Wharton. The machine gun was at rest, but he kept his
rifle across his knee. Nevertheless he did not anticipate any further
danger. He felt an immense satisfaction over their achievements, but the
danger and strain had been so great that rest seemed the finest thing in
the world. He hoped they would soon come to another of those neat French
inns, where they would surely be welcome.

But Wharton was not thinking of inns and rest. He took out the
dispatches and read them a second time. Then he folded them up
triumphantly and put them back in his pocket again. His soul burned with
ardor. Their fights with the aeroplanes and the armored cars were alike
forgotten. They must get forward with the prince's dispatches.

The sun came over the slopes, and the day grew fast. John fell asleep in
his seat with his rifle across his knees. He was aroused by the stopping
of the car and the murmur of many voices. He sat upright and was wide
awake all in a moment.

They had come to the village for which they had wished so ardently and
they were surrounded by people who looked curiously at the car, the
heavy dents in its armor, the machine gun, and, with the most curiosity
of all, at the three occupants.

But their looks were friendly. The three in the car wore the French
uniform, and while obviously they were not French, it was equally
obvious that they were friends of France. John smiled at them and asked
the burning question:

"Is there an inn here?"

They pointed across the street. There it was