the driver of the Red Cross ambulance kept assuring his two impatient passengers every now and then. "And let me tell you those fellows of the Lafayette Escadrille are a pretty lively bunch, all right. I've talked with some of them lately, and I've known a few of them who are gone—Chapman, Prince and Rockwell."
He glanced a bit anxiously toward Jack as he said this, but if he expected to see the other wince in the least he was mistaken.
"Oh! we've grown accustomed to that sort of talk, Neal," explained Jack quietly. "We know what chances we're taking, and have made up our minds to accept the worst. If either or both of us are brought down by the Boches it's no worse a fate than being shot to pieces with one of those big shells. And if Uncle Sam gets in this muddle that's the fate thousands of us will likely meet."
The sun sank lower, and night was not far distant. The big guns no longer fretted the air in the distance with their constant booming. The absence of the heavy reverberations was a relief to the tortured ears of the newcomers, as yet all unused to such a tremendous clamor.
Tom was using his binoculars as well as he could, considering the motion of the ambulance, the roadway being far from smooth, with more or less jostling much of the time.
