Rupert found himself confronted by a short, stout, red-faced man in a red tunic with three gold stripes on his arm.
"Name and regiment?" he snapped.
Rupert saw the necessity for a prompt answer at once and replied "Private Jackson, Royal Flying Corps."
"What's your number?"
"Number?" repeated Rupert in surprise.
"Come on, now—don't you let me 'ave none of your ... nonsense. Out with it!"
Rupert went hot and cold all over. His number! So he was discovered, after all. He gave it in a low voice. "No. 381. I'll go quietly with you, but I should like to see Lieutenant Crichton first."
"I ain't going to put you in the guard-room," the sergeant guffawed, "not unless you gives me any more of your blooming cheek. But you're for the orderly-room to-morrow morning, 9.45 sharp, for not saluting the General Officer Commanding the Western District—and don't you forget it, or you'll find yourself in 'clink.' Now, fly off, and don't give us so much of your ... Flying Corps manners."
Rupert reached the "Duke of Cornwall" safely without further adventure. But on his way there, when he found himself in the busy streets, a sudden panic seized him. He felt his body alternately grow hot and cold. He was overcome by an overwhelming desire to run—to run away from the people who thronged the pavements, to fight a passage through the traffic and escape—somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide himself and be alone.
Alone in the darkness again!