Still, we were not beguiled by the friendliness of our surroundings to take any chances, and, instead of waiting for ashes or coal to roast our potatoes, we put them right on the fire.  What if they were burnt on the outside?  We scraped off part of the charcoal and ate the rest.  We knew about charcoal tablets being good for digestion, and we believed ours could stand a little assistance, for green apples and new milk are not a highly recommended combination.

We kept track of the number of potatoes we ate that morning.  It was twenty-five!  What we couldn’t eat we put in our pockets, and held in our hands—­for the warmth.  That day, September 3d, was the brightest and warmest day we had.

Toward evening we crept out to the edge of the wood to see what sort of country we were in—­and found there was a village quite near us.  But as we had heard not a sound all day, and as there was not a flutter around it now,—­not a soul stirring or a cow-bell tinkling,—­we thought it must be a deserted hamlet.  The old and now almost indistinct paths through the wood where we sat seemed to tell of a departed people.

We sat in one of these old paths, watching the shafts of sunlight which filtered through the woods as we waited for the dark.  Then Ted began to fix the strips of cloth around his feet, and I lay down upon my back, across the path, looking up at the sky, which was shot over with mackerel-back clouds, giving promise of settled weather.

Suddenly, around a bend in the path, came a man and a dog.  The man carried a gun across his shoulder, and evidently had been shooting birds.  I swung myself off the path and motioned to him to go by—­for he had stopped in surprise.  Ted did the same.  Our gestures were polite—­but I think had something suggestive in them too—­almost commanding.

He passed by, merely bidding us “good-evening,” and remarking in German that Ted’s feet were sore!

He walked on, as a peaceable old fellow who had no desire to get into trouble, and although he must have seen the yellow stripe down the seams of our trousers, and the prison numbers on our tunics, he kept on going.

We watched him through the trees, as far as we could see him, but only once did he turn and look back—­and then only for a minute.  He was not going toward the village, but we decided to keep away from it, anyway, and at nightfall we made a wide detour to avoid it.  The night clouded up, too, and we pushed along with thankful hearts that the old man with the dog knew when to keep quiet.

A rare piece of good luck came to us that night.  We came to a settlement, evidently a new one, for the houses were of modern design, and the farm-buildings, too, were fresh and newly built.  There was evidently a creamery somewhere near, and beside the road we found a can full of milk set out, to be gathered up in the morning.  The cream had risen to the top of it, and with our toffee tin we helped ourselves.  Later on, we found others, and helped ourselves again.  It was a very satisfactory arrangement for us to have the refreshment booths scattered like this along the way.  Then we ate some of the burnt potatoes and an apple or two, had a few drinks of cream from another can, and the night passed pleasantly.  From the apple-trees beside the road we replenished our pockets, and felt this had been a good night.