He visualized, as the truck kept in its plodding way, the manner in which warfare might be directed from a center like Bray Park.  Thence aeroplanes, skillfully fashioned to represent the British planes, and so escape quick detection, might set forth.  They could carry a man or two, elude guards who thought the air lanes safe, and drop bombs here, there everywhere and anywhere.  Perhaps some such aerial raid was responsible for the explosion that had freed him only a very few hours before.  Warfare in England, carried on thus by a few men, would be none the less deadly because it would not involve fighting.  There would be no pitched battles, that much he knew.  Instead, there would be swift, stabbing raids.  Water works, gas works, would be blown up.  Attempts would be made to drop bombs in barracks, perhaps.  Certainly every effort would be made to destroy the great warehouses in which food was stored.  It was new, this sort of warfare, it defied the imagination.  And yet it was the warfare that, once he thought of it, it seemed certain that the Germans would wage.

He gritted his teeth at the thought of it.  Perhaps all was fair in love and war, as the old proverb said.  But this seemed like sneaky, unfair fighting to him.  There was nothing about it of the glory of warfare.  He was learning for himself that modern warfare is an ugly thing.  He was to learn, later, that it still held its possibilities of glory, and of heroism.  Indeed, for that matter, he was willing to grant the heroism of the men who dared these things that seemed to him so horrible.  They took their lives in their hands, knowing that if they were caught they would be hung as spies.

The truck was well into London now, and the dawn was full.  A faint drizzle was beginning to fall and the streets were covered with a fine film of mud.  People were about, and London was arousing itself to meet the new day.  Harry knew that he was near his journey’s end.  Tired as he was, he was determined to make his report before he thought of sleep.  And then, suddenly, around a bend, came a sight that brought Harry to his feet, scarcely able to believe his eyes.  It was Graves, on a bicycle.  At the sight of Harry on the truck he stopped.  Then he turned.

“Here he is!” he cried.  “That’s the one!”

A squad of men on cycles, headed by a young officer, came after Graves.

“Stop!” called the officer to the driver.

Harry stared down, wondering.

“You there —­ you Boy Scout come down!” said the officer.

Harry obeyed, wondering still more.  He saw the gleam of malignant triumph on the face of Graves.  But not even the presence of the officer restrained him.

“Where are those papers you stole from me, you sneak ?” he cried.

“You keep away from me!” said Graves.  “You Yankee!”

“Here, no quarreling!” said the officer.  “Take him, men!”

Two of the soldiers closed in on Harry.  He stared at them and then at the officer, stupefied.