to learn something of the movements of his cousin, Randolph Carringford.
Then came the afternoon. From indications Tom fancied that would be their last night in the old dugout. The Huns were still falling back, and word had been going around that by another day the Yankees would undoubtedly occupy the village that lay just beyond the hills where the bursting shrapnel had ascended on the occasion of the passage of the air squadron.
It was about four o'clock when Tom sighted his chum. Jack's face was gloomy, and he lacked his customary sprightliness of walk.
As he came up he tried to smile, but it was a rank failure.
"Well," he said disconsolately, "the very worst has happened, Tom. I've managed to get word after trying for hours, and have learned that my cousin sailed yesterday from Havre. He's beat me to it, and I've lost out!"
