it has a British air about it."

"And his leather puttees look like some the Germans wear," added Bob.
"Maybe he's a war correspondent, and had to pick up bits of uniform
from all over."

"He isn't a war correspondent," declared Jimmy.

"What makes you so sure?" Roger wanted to know.

"Because, if he was, he'd have a brassard with a large letter 'C'
on it, around his arm," went on Jimmy. "And he wouldn't have a big
automatic revolver strapped to his hip, either. The correspondents
are classed as non-combatants, and aren't allowed to go armed."

"That's right," chimed in Franz. "But who is he!"

It seemed useless to speculate then, and, indeed, the boys were in
little mood for it. The precariousness of their position was alarming.
And while I have detailed the conversation among them, you are to
understand that it all took place very quickly. In fact from the time
they first observed the strange rescuer, until they had talked about
his odd uniform, was only about half a minute.

Suddenly the man--officer let us call him--who was scurrying about
just beyond the jagged barrier, uttered a cry of satisfaction. He
hurried out of the boys' vision for a moment, but lest they have
any fear that he had deserted them and left them to their fates, he
called: