Then a stunning detonation.
Insensibly Barry and Cameron both crouched down in the car, but the
driver held his wheel, without the apparent quiver of a muscle.
"There'll be three more, presently, I guess," he said, putting on full
speed.
His guess proved right. Again that distant woolly "whoof," the
long-drawn whine, deepening to a scream, the appalling roar and crash,
and a second shell fell in the road behind them.
"Two," said the driver coolly. "There will be a couple more."
Again and yet again, each time the terror growing deeper in their souls,
came the two other shells, but they fell far behind.
"Oh, Fritzie," remonstrated the driver, "that's rotten bad work. You'll
have to do better than that."
Again and again, in groups of four, the shells came roaring in, but the
car had passed out of that particular zone of danger, and sped safely on
its way.
"Do you have this sort of thing every night?" enquired Barry.
"Oh, no," cheerfully replied the driver. "Fritzie makes a lot better
practice than that, at times.
Pages:
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358