"'Ere, who are you a shovin' off?" complained one of the linemen,
as he was pushed toward the motor. He made some effort to resist
but the next moment he pitched forward. One of the Germans had
struck him on the head with the butt of his revolver. It was a
stunning blow, and the man was certainly silenced. Dick recoiled
angrily from the sight, but he kept quiet. He knew he could do no
good by interfering. But the sheer, unnecessary brutality of it
shocked and angered him. He felt that Englishmen, or Americans,
would not treat a prisoner so -- especially one who had not been
fighting. These men were not even soldiers, they were spies,
which made the act the more outrageous. They were serving their
country, however, for all that, and that softened Dick's feeling
toward them a little. True, they were performing their service in
a sneaky, underhanded way that went against his grain. But it was
service, and he knew that England, too, probably used spies,
forced to do so for self-defence. He realized the value of the
spy's work, and the courage that work required. If these men were
captured they would not share the fate of those surrendering in
battle but would be shot, or hung, without ceremony.

A minute later he was forced into the tonneau of the car, where he
lay curled up on the floor. Two of the Germans sat in the
cushioned seat while the two linemen, the one who had been hit
still unconscious, were pitched in beside him. The other two
Germans were in front, and the car began to move at a snail's
pace. The man beside the driver began speaking in German, his
companion replied. But one of the two behind interrupted,
sharply.