He believed the fates had
answered.
Dragging his bicycle over the stone wall, he fell into the road.
"Go on," he commanded. "I'll use your cart for a screen. I'll creep
behind the enemy before he sees me."
The baker's boy frowned unhappily.
"But supposing," he argued, "they see you first, will they shoot?"
The scout waved his hand carelessly.
"Of course," he cried.
"Then," said the baker, "my horse will run away!"
"What of it?" demanded the scout. "Are Middleboro, South Middleboro,
Rock, Brockton, and Boston to fall? Are they to be captured because
you're afraid of your own horse? They won't shoot _real_ bullets! This
is not a real war. Don't you know that?"
The baker's boy flushed with indignation.
"Sure, I know that," he protested; "but my horse--_he_ don't know that!"
Lathrop slung his rifle over his shoulder and his leg over his bicycle.
"If the Reds catch you," he warned, in parting, "they'll take everything
you've got."
"The Blues have took most of it already," wailed the boy. "And just as
they were paying me the battle begun, and this horse run away, and I
couldn't get him to come back for my money.
Pages:
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241