A little while later the boy was on his way with half a dozen jolly, care-free fellows, who were a sapper squad, and two others who were transferred army cooks, all loaded into a big transport _camion_ that thundered, jolted, creaked and groaned, sputtered and backfired over the uneven and rutted roads, stopping now and then for deliberate repairs, to cool the motor or for meals, when a rest was always in order, together with card games or crap shooting, accompanied by a vast amount of hilarity. Don took no part in these latter performances, but was an intent observer; he very plainly smelled alcohol fumes among the men and he noted that the driver, a morose and silent fellow, was evidently not under the influence of the beverage that was being passed around. The boy bided his time. Presently a bottle was offered to him, but he declared that it made him sick. A little later there was a call for more and the driver stopped the car, reached back under his seat and brought forth a bottle of yellow fluid which was handed around, the driver himself persistently refusing to imbibe. Don watched him and saw the fellow’s eyes take on a queer, wicked glance at the increasing intoxication of the men. The boy liked this so little that he decided something must be wrong; at least there was open disobedience to strict orders against the use of intoxicants, this being dared because of the isolation of the long run somewhat out of the usual route and the expressed desire of everyone in the lorry, except Don, who was evidently regarded from his youth as quite unworthy of serious consideration. Instinctively the boy felt that here was a chance for some investigation along his new endeavor. Some risk was being run by the party; an M. P. was sighted ahead as he rode toward them. The driver gave them all a signal and comparative quiet ensued, with only one choked-off snatch of a song. The policeman reined in his horse, turned partly and gazed after the lorry, evidently thought better of following them and they were presently as noisy as ever. Another stop was made. Don did not believe, nor could he detect anything was the matter with the motor. Several of the men got out and started another crap game; some were asleep, or near it, inside the car. Don saw and took his chance to have a quiet word with the driver, though he foresaw that he must prod his own nerve. “What’s the use of just delaying a little?” he said, looking the other in the face, with a wink. “Why don’t you run into the ditch and then get under and disconnect your steering rod, chuck the bolt away and blame it on that?” “What you talkin’ about?” demanded the driver, turning almost savagely upon the boy. “Why, it’s a nice day if it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” Don said, laughing a little. “I said cross steering rods are often weak and ditches handy. That’ll fix these _teufels_ so they can’t get to the front.” “Who wants to fix them?”