They followed him as he started.  As soon as he was in the open road again, a new idea came to him.  Why not try the great house on the hill?  There certainly someone would know the difference between an American and an Englishman.  He was very tired.  He knew that, even if he went on, he would have to stop at some village sooner or later.  And if he was suspected here, he would be at the next place.

And so, trying to ignore the little crowd that was following him, he turned off and began climbing toward the mansion above the village.

It was like a signal.  From behind him there rose a dull murmur.  A lad not much older than himself raced up and stood threateningly in his path.

“If you are an American and honest, why are you going there?” asked this boy, a peasant, and rather stupid in his appearance.

“None of your business!” said Fred, aroused.  He didn’t think that the advice of his friend Lieutenant Ernst to answer questions covered this.

“You can’t go there.  There are spies enough there already!” cried the other.

And then without any warning, he lunged forward and tried to grapple with Fred.

That aroused all the primitive fight in Fred. He met the attack joyously for wrestling was something he understood very well.  And in a moment he had pinned the peasant boy, strong as he was, to the earth.

But he had got rid of one opponent only to have a dozen others spring up.  There was a throng about him as he shook himself free, a throng that closed in, shouting, cursing.  For a moment things looked serious.  Fred now understood these people thought he was a spy.  And he could guess that it would go hard with him if he didn’t get away.  He forgot everything but that, and he fought hard and well to make good his escape.  But they were too many for him.  Try as he would, he couldn’t get clear, although he put up a fight that must have been a tremendous surprise to his assailants.  In the end, though, they got him down, with cries of triumph.

And then there came a sudden diversion from outside the mob.  Down the road from the great house, shrieking a warning, came a flying motor car.  Its siren sounded quick, angry blasts, and the mob, terrified, broke and scattered to get out of the way of the car.  Fred, stupefied, didn’t run.  He had to jump quickly to one side to get out of the car’s path.  Then he saw that it was slowing down, and that it was driven by a boy of his own age.  This boy leaned toward him.

“I’m going to turn and go back.  Jump aboard as I come by—­I won’t be going very fast!” he cried.

Fred didn’t stop to argue or to wonder why this stranger had come to his aid in such a sensational and timely fashion.  Instead, he gathered himself together and, as the car swung about and passed him, leaped in.  As he grasped the seat, the driver shot the car forward and it went roaring up the hill, pursued by a chorus of angry cries from the crowd, utterly balked of its prey.