Once out of the town limits of Ghent we bowled along at top speed,
with the American colors trembling fore and aft and impressive-
looking signs pasted on windshield and side-flaps. The autumn rains
descended heavily upon us, drenching everything except the
carefully protected mail bags.

Six miles southeast of Ghent, we ran into a regiment of Belgian
infantry moving back from the direction of Brussels, and farther on a
squad of cavalry and some more cavalry outposts; then two
companies of bicycle patrol, the men with their heads bent over the
handlebars, Mausers slung over their shoulders, pedaling heavily
through the mud and slush of a cold September storm. A few
mitrailleuses, known as the Minerva type, and mounted on armored
motor-cars, were trained on the ravine through which the road dipped
a thousand yards ahead of us. They had sighted the German
outposts on the crest of a hill opposite us about three quarters of a
mile away. In a very poor kind of trench, hastily constructed in the
beet-fields, and little more than body deep, the men lay on their
bellies in the mud, nervously fingering their muskets and adjusting the
sights. A third company of bicycle scouts were ordered to advance for
the purpose of drawing fire.

I doubt if that particular body of men had ever before been under fire.
Never was the fear of death more plainly written on human face. All of
the men went ahead without flinching or failing, but the muscles of
their jaws were knotted, their faces were the color of chalk, and one
or two dismounted for a moment, subject to the physical effects of
fear. I have seen men tremble before important physical contests:
Jeffries, stepping into the prize ring at Reno, Nevada, ready for the