The carryall never stopped at all, the pony trotting along unconcernedly, and it was so dark beneath the top I could not see sign of anybody.

It was a queer-looking outfit, but I had no doubt this would be Billie, and the despatches.
The officer was still riding ahead when they passed me, his cape blown up over his hat, and his head bent forward to make out the road, as though his eyes still remained blinded by the firelight.

Without definite plan, yet firmly determined not to be left behind, I squirmed across the road, ran up close to the carryall, and caught hold at the rear.

The soldiers back in the glare saw nothing, while the mingled noise of hoofs and wheels left me unheard.

I discovered my fingers grasping some narrow wooden slats, held up firmly against the back of the vehicle by a chain at each end.