In the field on their left, there leaped fifty yards into the air a huge mass of earth and smoke.

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.