Then he called softly:
"Carstairs, Wharton! I've got him! Help me down!"
Carstairs and Wharton appeared and Carstairs said:
"Well, you light-headed Yankee, you have come back!"
"Yes, and I've brought with me what I went after. Help me down with him.
Easy there now! He's hit hard in the shoulder!"
The two lifted him into the trench and John slid after him, just as a
half-dozen random shots whistled over his head. There they drew the
rescued youth into one of the alcoves dug in the wall and Carstairs
flashed his electric torch on his face, revealing features boyish,
delicate, and white as death now. His gray uniform was of richer
material than usual and an iron cross was pinned upon his breast.
"A brave lad as the cross shows," said Carstairs, "and I should judge
too from his appearance that he's of high rank. Maybe he's a prince or
the son of a prince. You've already had adventures with two of them."
"One of whom I liked."
"He looks like a good fellow," said Wharton. "I'm glad you saved him.
Rub his hands while I give him a taste of this."
John and Carstairs rubbed his palms until he opened his eyes, when
Wharton put a flask to his lips and made him drink. He groaned again and
tried to sit up.
"Just you lie still, Herr Katzenellenbogen," said Wharton. "You're in
the hands of your friends, the enemy, but we're saving your life or
rather it's been done already by the man on your left; name, John Scott;
nationality, American; service, French.
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