"So you have settled with one of this scum," exclaimed the Belgian major in charge of the detachment as he returned Kenneth's salute. "Ma foi! I am of a mind to shoot him." "But he is a prisoner of war," expostulated the lad. The Belgian shrugged his shoulders. "You have but to go to that burning cottage"--he pointed to a building about a mile and a half away--"to see what these wretches have been doing. A whole family of inoffensive peasants shot--men, women, and children. Yes, children," he added, noting the incredulous look on the British lad's face. "However, we Belgians must set an example to those savages," continued the officer. "We will at least take him with us, and put him on a fair trial. But you are unarmed: how did you vanquish this fellow?" Kenneth told him. The Belgian major and those of his men who were within ear-shot simply roared with laughter. "Charged his horse with your motor-cycle, and frightened away another Uhlan with a soda-water bottle!" exclaimed the officer when he recovered himself. "Excellent! It shows that these Germans are not a quarter as formidable as they would have us believe. Were you hurt?" "Only bruised a little, sir. But, with your permission, I will go, or your men will be with my regiment before I am." The lad ran his cycle and vaulted into the saddle. The motor ran as well as before, and, beyond a slight difficulty in the steering, it was none the worse for its rough handling. The damage to the lamp mattered but little, as, by night, riding lights were forbidden, since they might betray the rider to the enemy. Having reported the success of his mission and the approach of the dog-drawn machine-gun detachment, Kenneth went to find his chum. Rollo was sitting, in company with others of the dispatch-rider section, in a shelter made of branches of trees and rough thatch. "Hullo, old man!" he exclaimed. "What have you there--a Uhlan helmet? And what's the matter with your bike?" Kenneth explained, and afterwards had to repeat his story in French for the benefit of the others. "I will help you to straighten the handle-bars," volunteered one of the Belgian cyclists, who was a motor-repairer by trade. "Meanwhile, if you are desirous of sending that helmet to your friends in England, you will do well to pack it up at once. There is a dispatch leaving for Brussels within half an hour." "I wonder what the governor will say to this," observed Kenneth as he directed the bulky package. "My first trophy! Goodness only knows when we shall hear from home." The lads had already written to their respective parents informing them of the drastic step they had taken, but, owing to the dislocation of the postal service, no reply had been forthcoming, and they had hardly expected one. It took two hours' hard work in the blazing sunshine for Kenneth and his Belgian friend to set the motorcycle to rights.