Twice, before drinking, he lifted his head to sweep the woods around him, his parched lips still dry. Then, with the abruptness--not of man but of some wild thing--he plunged his sweating face into the pool.
And McKay covered him where he lay, and spoke in a voice which stiffened the drinking man to a statue prone on its face: "I've got you right! Don't lift your head! You'll understand me if you're American!"
The man lay as though dead. McKay came nearer; Evelyn Erith was at his elbow.
"Take his rifle, Eve."
The girl walked over and coolly picked up the Winchester.
"Now cover him!" continued McKay. "Find a good rest for your gun and keep him covered, Eve."
She laid the rifle level across a low branch, drew the stock snug and laid her cheek to it and her steady finger on the trigger.
"When I say'squeeze,' let him have it! Do you understand, Eve?"
"Perfectly."
Then, with one pistol poised for a drop shot, McKay stepped forward and jerked open the man's pack. And the man neither stirred nor spoke. For a few minutes McKay remained busy with the pack, turning out packets of concentrated rations of American manufacture, bits of personal apparel, a meagre company outfit, spare ammunition--the dozen-odd essentials to be always found in an American hunter's pack.
Then McKay spoke again: "Eve, keep him covered. Shoot when I say shoot."
"Right," she replied calmly. And to the recumbent and unstirring figure McKay gave a brief order: "Get up! Hands up!"
The man rose as though made of steel springs and lifted both hands.
Water still ran from his chin and lips and sweating cheeks. But McKay, resting the muzzle of his pistol against the man's abdomen, looked into a face that twitched with laughter.
"You think it's funny?" he snarled, but the blessed relief that surged through him made his voice a trifle unsteady.
"Yes," said the man, "it hits me that way."
"Something else may hit you," growled McKay, ready to embrace him with sheer joy.
"Not unless you're a Boche," retorted the man coolly. "But I guess you're Kay McKay--"
"Don't get so damned familiar with names!"
"That's right, too. I'll just call you Seventy-Six, and this young lady Seventy-Seven.... And I'm Two Hundred and Thirty."
"What else?"
"My name?"
"Certainly."
"It isn't expected--"
"It is in this case," snapped McKay, wondering at himself for such ultra precaution.
"Oh, if you insist then, I'm Gray.... Alec Gray of the States United Army Intelligence Serv"
"All right.... Gad!... It's all right, Gray!"
He took the man's lifted right hand, jerked it down and crushed it in a convulsive grasp: "It's good to see you.... We're in a hole--deadlocked--no way out but back!" he laughed nervously. "Have you any dope for us?"