"Sssssh!" hissed Vic, with the noise of an engine letting off steam. "He's coming in now!"
Instantly the crowd about the window scattered like flies before a switch. The crochet, the ironing, the book, the washing-up, all were resumed. It was indeed a model camp-room, full of silently-industrious young women, that met the eyes of the two visitors.
First the small, pink-faced man in leggings and loud checks, with an orange moustache and a plume of amber hair that seemed to spring up off his forehead as he took off his hat, smiled, and nodded about to the sedate assembly of girls.
"Good evening, young ladies. Good evening, Miss Easton. Brought you a caller," said Mr. Rhys.
Miss Easton, the forewoman, said "Good evening, Mr. Rhys," as demurely as if she had no curiosity at all about this caller. The tall man's shape that was darkening the doorway behind Mr. Rhys gave a sudden abrupt movement forward.
"This," said Mr. Rhys in his pleasant Welshy voice, "is Captain Holiday."
Mr. Rhys, putting his hat and twisty stick down on a chair, added without further explanation, "I told Captain Holiday I thought you wouldn't mind letting him have a bit of a look round the place."
"That's all right, Mr. Rhys," said the forewoman, with a little bow to acknowledge the salute of the strange officer, who had now come right into the room.
* * * * * * *
Here I would like to give my first impression of him, though every one knows how difficult it is to recall an impression taken when one is too dog-tired to notice clearly, or to care what any fresh person is like.