For a moment
the officer watched it, then, with a muttered curse, he raced down the
hillside followed by one of his men. The noise of the storm hid their
approach. The boy collapsed into a trembling heap, as the officer grasped
him and wrested the flash-light from his chilled fingers. He made no
protest as they led him down into a dark, deserted village. He followed
his captors into a candle-lighted room where sat a staff officer.
Briefly the Captain explained the situation.
"Caught him in the act of signaling to an enemy plane, sir," he said.
The boy was too cold to venture a protest.
"Bring him to me again in the morning," said the Colonel, shrugging his
shoulders. "Hold on, though! What are you going to do with him? He will
die unless you get him warmed up."
"Don't know what to do with him, sir, unless I take him down to the
Salvation Army... they have a fire there."
"Very good, Captain, see that he is properly guarded and if they will have
him, leave him there for the night." And so it came to pass that the boy
reached his destination. It was past closing time--long past; but the
motherly Salvationist in charge knew just what to do. Within ten minutes,
wrapped in a warm blanket, the boy sat with his feet in a pan of hot
water, with the Salvation Army woman feeding him steaming lemonade.
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