Bob was glad to be able to answer, “No, I’m sure you’re quite all right. You were overcome by the cold, and frost-bitten. But the surgeon seemed satisfied before he left. Were you out long in the storm?”
“Long enough. I shiver yet to think of it,” said the Britisher, his voice quickening with a return of his unquenchable energy. “It’s a bit of a storm. I’m grateful to it, though. The snow fell so thick the guards left my window. I broke out, hid, and ran for it. They chased me and did some blind firing. One ran square into me. I grabbed him and brought him in. Nothing much to that end of it. The tough part was the half hour I crouched in the snow under my window, waiting for the camp sentries to give up patrolling and make for shelter.”
“Where were you? Behind their lines?”
“In a sort of shack near the Bolshies’ barracks—right beyond their trenches. But the bally trenches are not held to-day, except at intervals. I stole over easily enough. By the way, may I know your name?”
“Robert Gordon, Captain, U. S. Flying Corps. Did you find out much about the Bolshevik force?” Bob was thinking again of Androvsky’s revelations.
“Robert Gordon, did you say?” asked the Britisher, ignoring the question. “Are there others of that name in your corps?”
“No, not any other in the Flying Corps. Do you think the Germans are supporting the Bolsheviki? Are there any German officers over there now?” persisted Bob, following his own anxious thoughts.
“Didn’t see any. Don’t know, to tell the truth. I was busy wondering if I’d starve to death before I could make a break for it. Horrid bounders, Bolshies. But, I say, this is simply priceless! Haven’t you a cousin, Henry Leslie?”
“Yes! Why?” Bob raised his head to see the Britisher’s face as he put the question.
“As some original chap remarked, it’s a small world. To think we had to come to Archangel to meet. Hope you’ll find me worth the trouble.”