Here's the first one. I don't have time to do the second one.
There were a couple of portions that I could not understand. They are bolded below.
Two men strode hurriedly through the black of the Aldorian night, shadows against the darker shadows of brush along the edge of the field. Beyond them, against the stars, loomed the foothills of the Balkan spur known as ?? range. A sweet tang of spring drifted on the wind as they closed, belied by the sharp chill of the passing winter. Far off, a train whistled three ghostly notes.
“Rose” said the shorter man, "why didn’t you tell me that it was this cold in the Balkans."
“Quit chattering. If a patrol hears those teeth, they will think we’ve got a machine gun.”
“Don’t mention machine guns. They make me think of a firing squad. Gosh, Blackie, aren’t we ever going to get across the frontier.”
“Take it easy sweetheart. When I stopped running back there, we crossed the frontier. We’re in Aldoria.”
“Blackie, what do we do for passports?”
“We’ll think about that if we meet up with a patrol.”
“Yeah, but we can’t use our own. The Nazi government will extradite us and it’s too cold to get shot.”
“Take it easy sweetheart. Hear that?”
The shorter one paused and listened to the nearing hoot of a train and then had to speed up to catch his companion, who had turned at an angle toward a distant light and was increasing his pace. As the light ahead grew brighter, other lights about it came into sight until the railroad station, the only illuminated building in the sleeping hamlet, took definite form. Gravel and cinders crunched beneath their feet as they struggled up the incline to the tracks. About a mile away, the headlight of a locomotive was growing.
“We can’t get on that”, said the shorter man. “We haven’t any Aldorian dough, and they’ll ask for our passports and the Nazi government…”
“Have I ever let you down”, said the taller one, crisply.
“No. Yeah. You said they wouldn’t find out them artillery shells was loaded with sand and that the machine guns had solid barrels until we collected the gas and now look at us. Broke, in a postage stamp of a Balkan state. Why didn’t you let us try for the coast where it’s warm?”
“Somewhere around here”, said the other, affably, “there will be a grave marked Stub Doyle unless I hear large quantities of quiet”.
“OK, Blackie, but when I……..checkered topcoat….
Blackie Lee stepped off the track and hauled Stub Doyle with him. The chunky mountain locomotive snorted and squealed and rattled to a halt beyond the station, leaving the last car abreast of the two wayfarers. Blackie Lee fumbled with the door and finally got it open. He gave Stub a boost that landed the little fellow asprawl in the vestibule and then swung the one grip after him and swiftly followed it himself. Blackie closed the door and motioned along the aisle.
The train was already starting when they found an empty compartment and shortly after, when the trainmaster glanced in on his way by, his attention was in no way attracted by the passengers therein, curled on the seats.
Stub Doyle, as soon as the minutes had passed, put his hands on the radiator with a grateful sigh. He was still occasionally convulsed with shivers, but gradually these subsided and he paid more and more attention to Blackie Lee. Blackie was sitting up again, looking absently through the window at the flying night. He was a handsome fellow, but not in the sense of possessing regular features. His cheekbones were prominent and high and his brows jutted in such a way as to give his light-colored eyes the impression of being masked. His mouth was pleasant, his teeth even and flawless, and his jaw strong. His ginger-colored mustache was usually neatly trimmed, but never pointed. He had the easy careless air of the cosmopolitan and there was something about him that suggested that he commanded any situation in which he found himself. And now, after he had scrambled through briars and creeks, his suit was still obviously from London’s Strand.
He was plausible and personable and, if at times he cared more about making his own laws than following those made by others, his good points still outweighed his bad.
Stub always had an uneasy feeling about Blackie Lee. Stub’s state of mind was that of a man watching another holding a cannon cracker and not knowing just when he’d let that cracker explode. At least once a day, Stub wondered why he had ever allowed himself to become associated with as nerve-wracking a fellow as Blackie Lee. One never knew what was going on in Lee’s mind and never, never knew just when those thoughts would amalgamate with a bang. And, sitting there watching Blackie just now, Stub forgot all about how grateful he was for the warmth in the radiator.
Blackie Lee had come out of his reverie and was now, by aid of his reflection in the glass, carefully twirling his ginger mustache into a pair of military points. Stub, who always ran on the assumption that now, at last, he knew everything about Blackie Lee, was sorely jolted by the little container of mustache wax, which Blackie was using. Never, in all the years he had been with Blackie, had Stub known him to carry wax or use wax, and now, with their baggage abandoned in Austria, a thing as nonsensical as mustache wax was here in Blackie’s possession.
Certainly, Blackie was attempting no disguise, for pointing a mustache would be a very weak attempt in that direction.
.
at night. Shadows against the darker shadow of brushed along the edge of the field. Behind them, against the stars, loong the foot heals of the balken spern known as balk strange.