"A fine old fellow!" he thought, "but he doesn’t know the Germans if he supposes that the wine-cellar will be a safe place. I must find somewhere better than that." He overtook the men before they reached the village. Passing the ancient church, an idea occurred to him. "Is there a crypt?" he asked. "Parfaitement, monsieur," a man replied. "Halt a minute." He hastened to the priest’s house adjoining, at the door of which stood the curé in his biretta and long soutane. A minute’s conversation settled the matter. "It is a good cause, monsieur," said the curé. "Direct our friends." Superintended by Burton, the men wheeled the machine through the great door into the church. While Burton rapidly unscrewed the planes, willing hands opened up the floor, and in a quarter of an hour the aeroplane was lowered into the crypt. "Is there an engineer in the village?" Burton asked. "Mais non, monsieur, but there is Boitelet, the smith--a clever fellow, monsieur. You should have seen him set monsieur le capitaine’s automobile to rights. Boitelet is your man." Burton hurried to the smithy. Boitelet, a shaggy giant of fifty years or so, accompanied him back to the church. "Ah ça!" he exclaimed on examining the engine. "I can repair it, yes; but I must go for material to the town, ten miles away. It will be a full day’s work, and what is monsieur to do, with the Bosches at hand?" Burton thought quickly. "Make me your assistant," he said after a minute or two. "I’ll strip off my overalls and clothes; lend me things--a shirt and apron. A little more grease and dirt will disguise me." "But monsieur is young," said the smith. "All our young men are at the war. The Bosches will make you prisoner--shoot you, perhaps." "An awkward situation, truly," said Burton, rubbing a greasy hand over his face. Suddenly he remembered the half-witted stripling among the crowd. Could he feign idiocy as an explanation of his presence in the village? He could mop and mow, but nothing could banish the gleam of intelligence from his eyes. And his tongue!--he spoke French fairly well, but his accent would inevitably betray him to any German who chanced to be a linguist. "There is only one thing," he cried. "I must pretend to be deaf and dumb. Tell everybody, will you?" "It is clever, monsieur, that idea of yours," said the smith, laughing. "Yes; you are Jules le sourd-muet, burning to fight, but rejected because you could never hear the word of command. But you must be careful, monsieur; a single slip, and--voilà!" He shrugged his shoulder expressively. "The Bosches! The Bosches!" screamed a group of frightened children, rushing up the street.