"We're bound to do our
part of the job right up to the handle. Besides, what do ten or twenty
minutes amount to?"
When Tom announced himself satisfied night had settled on the land.
Dunkirk had for long been annoyed by the fire of a long-range
monster gun, shells dropping into the city at stated intervals for
weeks at a time.
So, too, hostile airplanes had hovered over the Channel port, trying to
make it unpleasant for the British Tommies in camp near by. But since
Marshal Foch opened operations on a large scale, together with the
furious drive of General Pershing's army, this had altogether ceased.
Major Denning had a car at their disposal.
"It will take us to a place where we can leave the road and follow a
path to the beach," he told them. "Beverly has quite a force of men
there looking after things, which fact makes me hope nothing could have
happened to injure or destroy that wonderful bomber. But we've been
pestered to death with Hun bounders playing spy, and I'd put nothing
past them."
They set out, and were soon on the way. Major Denning had a man at the
wheel, evidently his chauffeur, for he was a British private. He knew the
road, and managed to steer clear of the obstructions that continually
cropped up.
"Seems to me those Hun pilots must have dropped most of their bombs out
this way, instead of hitting the town or the camps," Tom suggested, as
they dodged to and fro, and often suffered severe bouncings.
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