Close to the spot where Kenneth and his companion had stopped was a large farm wagon piled high with furniture. Yoked to it were the bodies of two oxen, while a short distance away lay a dead peasant--an old man. The wagon, on which the refugee had been attempting to remove his goods and chattels from his threatened homestead, had fallen an easy target to the German guns. A gnawing hunger compelled the British lads to examine the shell-riddled contents of the wagon in the hope of finding food. But in this they were disappointed. Not so much as a scrap of anything to eat was to be found. Both lads were parched, Kenneth especially so. Even Rollo had almost forgotten the refreshing taste of the water given him by the German private. Yet, even in the pangs of a burning thirst, they could not bring themselves to drink of the stagnant water in the ditches by the roadside. The repair completed, the motor-cyclists remounted. They were most eager to push on, even for the sake of obtaining drink, food, and rest. It could only be a matter of a few short, easy miles before they would be safe for the time being in the country still held by their friends, the Belgian troops. "She's pulling splendidly now," announced Kenneth, referring to the transmission of power from the engine to the driving-wheel. Both lads had now discarded the bandages over their bogus wounds, and conversation was a fairly easy matter. Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the motor began to falter. Then it "picked up", ran for about a quarter of a minute and slowed down again, finally coming to a dead-stop. "No petrol," announced Rollo ruefully. "The tank is empty." "Rot!" ejaculated his companion incredulously. "It was full when we started, and I'll swear we've done nothing like sixty miles on it yet." Kenneth examined the gauge, then turned to his chum. "Sorry, old man," he said. "I'm wrong. The stuff's all gone." Further examination revealed the unpleasant fact that there was a small leak between the piping and the carburettor. Unnoticed, a quantity of the petrol had run to waste. "It's a case of push," continued Kenneth. "How's your foot? Fit for a tramp? If not, you may as well get on the saddle and I'll run you along." Although young Barrington's ankle was paining considerably, he sturdily refused to take advantage of his companion's offer. From experience he knew that pushing a motor was no light task. Kenneth might be capable of giving him a lift, but Rollo would not trespass upon his friend's generous conduct to that extent. On and on they plodded, Rollo resting one hand on the saddle and striving to conceal his limp. Presently a practically ruined village came in sight. Not only had it been heavily bombarded, but subsequent fires had increased the work of destruction. Thick columns of smoke were rising high into the sultry air, while above the roar of the flames could be heard the excited tones of human voices.