He knew that the fighting there was of the old-fashioned sort, from behind protecting trees and wooded hillocks, something like the good old fights of Indians and buckskin scouts away home in the wild west of America.

And he could not repress his impulse to venture farther into the solitude.
[Illustration: TOM SLIPPED BEHIND A TREE AND WATCHED THE MAN WHO PAUSED LIKE A STARTLED ANIMAL.] The stream which he had crossed had evidently its source in the more densely wooded hills beyond and he followed it on its narrowing way up toward the locality where the fighting seemed now to be going on.

Once a group of khaki-clad figures passed stealthily among the trees, intent upon some quest.

The sight of their rifles reminded Tom that he was himself in danger, but he reflected that he was in no greater danger than they and that he had with him the small arm which all messengers carried.
A little farther on he espied an American concealed behind a tree, who nodded his head perfunctorily as Tom passed, seeming to discourage any spoken greeting.
The path of the stream led into an area of thick undergrowth covering the side of a gentle slope where the water tumbled down in little falls.
He must be approaching very near to the source, he thought, for the stream was becoming a mere trickle, picking its way around rocky obstacles in a very jungle of thick underbrush.
Suddenly he stopped at a slight rustling sound very near him.
It was the familiar sound which he had so often heard away back in the Adirondack woods, of some startled creature scurrying to shelter.
He was the scout again now, standing motionless and silent--keenly waiting.

Then, to his amazement, a clump of bushes almost at his feet stirred slightly.