CHAPTER XVIII

A STRANGE MEETING

Bob Dalton slowly opened his eyes. The reason he did it slowly was because it seemed less painful that way. And the truth of the matter was that he ached all over. Later he said he felt as though some one had taken a club and pounded him from head to foot.

"I wonder what happened," mused Bob, and his brain seemed to work as slowly as did his eyes. Then came remembrance of the great blast, of the farmhouse blown into the air, and he himself being hurled along with at least part of it. Then came the fall and darkness. And it was from this darkness of unconsciousness that Bob was now gradually emerging.

He turned his head from side to side, and was glad to find that it was still attached to his body and that he could still move it.

Bob saw that he was lying in a field. Dirt was all about him, some scattered in such a way as to show that shells had landed there not very long before. Over his head Bob could see the sky and note that clouds were slowly floating along.

"Well, I'm out in the open, that's one sure thing," mused the Khaki Boy. "Now to see if I've got my legs and arms left. My head's as sore as a boil, though."

The best way to discover this was to use his hands, and he found, to his delight, that they were both attached to his arms, and that his fingers were intact. They were a little numb, but he managed to move them, convincing himself that at least the upper part of his body was still intact.

"Hum! Lump about as big as a hen's egg," murmured Bob, as he discovered a protuberence on his head. It was the blow which caused this that had rendered him senseless.

"Now if I can wiggle my legs maybe I'll be able to get up and see what happened and what's going on," thought Bob. He lay still for a moment longer, however, moving his feet only slightly, and he was glad to find that his legs seemed to be normal.

There was borne to his ears the distant sounds of war-the rattle of rifles and machine guns, and the boom of artillery. But it was so distant that he decided the tide of battle had passed beyond him, wherever he was.

"And that's the thing to find out--where I am," murmured Bob. "I can get up, I guess."

He was about to do this when he heard voices talking, and it needed but a hearing of the first few words to tell Bob that the talk was in German.

Bob lay still and listened. He wanted to make sure of his position before he arose. The next few words apprised him of the plight into which he had fallen, or rather, been blown. Bob understood enough German to enable him to know what was being said. And the first expression was, when translated:

"There is another dead American pig over there."

"You're right," came in rejoinder. "The mine hidden in the house worked to perfection. If they killed our machine gunners, we killed twice as many of them."

"It was a beautiful explosion," went on the first speaker. "How the swine-hounds did sail up."

"Blown to bits!" laughed the other.

"All but this one. He doesn't seem to have been hurt at all."

"Maybe he was too far outside. But he is dead, there is no need to bayonet him."

"Say, can they be talking about me?" was the thought that flashed through Bob's mind.

There seemed to be no doubt of it a little later, for he heard one of the Germans say:

"Well, we may as well search him. The pigs sometimes have gold money. And, anyhow, his shoes are better than mine. I'll take them off. Dead men need no shoes!" and he laughed.

"He takes a whole lot for granted," thought Bob grimly. And then, as he sensed the import of this talk, his real situation became apparent.

"They had that farmhouse mined," mused Bob. "After we wiped out the machine gunners some one of the Boches must have sprung the mine. That did for our fellows and sent me sailing through the air. I got the bump on the head that put me to sleep, and now, as soon as I wake up, they think I'm dead. But I'll show 'em----"

He brought his musings to a sudden end, for at that instant he felt a violent pull on one leg. His foot was wrenched to one side. But Bob did not mind the pain much, for it told him his feet and legs were in good shape.

"Here! Quit that!" he yelled, as he raised his head and saw a burly German soldier trying to unlace the shoes that were on Bob's feet.

If a bomb had dropped between the two Huns they could not have been more greatly disturbed. They leaped back and stared with wide-open eyes at Bob, who sat up. The man who had had hold of his foot dropped it.

"He--he is not dead!" this fellow cried, in German.

"No. But let's finish him!" said the other.

For a moment Bob gave up hope. He was unarmed. His rifle had blown out of his hands and his revolver was missing. And he saw, not far off, a number of Germans. It was evident there had been a shift in the lines during the time Bob was unconscious, and the Boches again occupied the position around the demolished farmhouse.

The Hun who had proposed to bayonet Bob raised his weapon, but the other interposed.

"We were told to take prisoners if we could get them," he said in German. "And this is one of their under-officers. He may tell us something."

"You've got another guess coming, Fritzie!" said Bob, aloud.

"The pig-dog says something," remarked the soldier with the rifle. "Do you know what it is, comrade?"

"_Nein!_ How should I speak the rotten talk? Well, we'll search him and take him along with us. The lieutenant will be glad of the prisoner."

Poor Bob was in dire straits, but, still, being taken prisoner was infinitely better than being bayoneted on the spot; and Bob realized this even though he had heard many stories of the German prison camps.

For one wild moment he had an idea of leaping up and giving the best battle possible to his two captors. There were only two immediately near him, and Bob had a sort of patriotic notion that one American was better than half a dozen Germans. But cold facts stared him in the face as he slowly rose to his feet. Among these facts was the realization that he was weak and trembling from the effects of his being so nearly blown to death in the explosion. Another fact was, that though there were only two of the Huns close at hand, there were many others within signaling distance.

"Well, I guess I'll have to give up," thought poor Bob.

And then the Germans closed in on him. Bob could not resist. His pockets were turned inside out, and they took everything he had. They even took his shoes, and tossed him a pair of old, half-rotten ones which the tallest German discarded.

"Go ahead!" ordered the man who had expressed the wish to bayonet Bob, and the prisoner had no choice but to obey. They marched behind him with rifles held in readiness for instant use, and soon Bob was in the midst of a company of Germans, the officer of which showed great delight at the sight of the American.

"I wonder how many of our poor fellows they have," mused Bob. "Gee, but this is tough luck!"

He felt like giving way to despair, but his pride and grit kept him from doing so before the leering, exultant Germans. So Bob shut his teeth tight and marched on. It was not until late that evening that he was allowed to rest in a German camp, and then he found what the officer had meant by "others." There were a number of Americans who had been captured and were being herded together to be sent into the interior of Germany or to some of the conquered parts of France, where many of the German prison camps were located.

The days that followed Bob's capture were full of misery. He was packed into a filthy railroad car with wounded and distressed men, and then, by slow and jerky stages, he was taken away.

On this terrible journey to the German prison camp the poor captives had scarcely anything to eat and almost no water to drink. Many were ill, and several wounded, but no attention was given them, and their wounds were not dressed.

At times Bob thought he would go mad at the sights he saw. His own personal sufferings, once the pain in his head ceased, were not great; but, in common with the others, he lacked food and water.

And finally, after many weary days they were taken from the train and marched amid jeering lines of Germans to a wired stockade.

Bob dragged his unwilling feet into the stockade. He saw gathered in the enclosure many sad-eyed and sorrowful American and Allied prisoners. And then, to the great astonishment of Bob, he heard his own name shouted.

Some one was running toward him--a ragged figure--and at first he did not recognize who it was. Then the voice spoke again:

"Bob! Bob Dalton! And so they got you, too! Oh, but I'm glad to see you----No, I'm not either--not here!"

Bob rubbed his eyes. For a moment he thought it was all a dream and that this was but a phase of the explosion. Then as the face before him became more plain through a mist that seemed to fill his eyes, Bob gasped:

"Schnitz! If it isn't Franz Schnitzel!"

The long-sought, missing Brother had been found, and now the two Khaki Boys had strangely met to be companions in misery.