"Spread out some, Harry!" he managed to shout.
His object in saying this was to make it more difficult for the Boche to hold his own when necessity compelled him to veer to one side. They dodged the hangars that barred the way, running in and out of the lines with the swiftness of a hare followed by the eager hounds.
Once a waiting figure tried to bar the path of the spy, only to be promptly bowled over. Desperation nerved the arm that struck that blow. The German knew that his chances were almost at the zero mark, and for the time being he was like a wolf at bay, ready to snap right and left and do what damage he could before yielding himself a prisoner.
Once more Tom had made a gain. The Fates were favoring him, it seemed, and with set teeth he kept up the hot chase.
Suddenly the Hun collapsed.
Tom almost fell over him as he ran on; and when Harry came up was bending above the spy, muttering to himself after the manner of a sadly disappointed person.
"What rotten luck for us, after all our work, Harry!" he complained, to the utter bewilderment of his comrade.
"I don't get your meaning, Tom!" exclaimed
