Probably none of the lunchers knew what that meant; it was not their affair.
Up the muddy road swung a brown detachment to the music of mouth organs, and Harry Hawke, who was lounging at the door of a big barn, chewing a woodbine and looking fed up with life generally, lifted his snub nose in the air as the head of the detachment came round a bend in the road.
In an instant the sulky, discontented look vanished from his face, and he let off a yell.
"Turn out, you beggars!" he yelped. "Tiddler, look at this! 'Ere's our bloomin' draft at larst. Give 'em a cheer, boys! Now we shan't be long!"
From the barn and the adjacent cottages the Reedshires poured and lined up at the roadside.
"Never mind the weather,
Now then, all together:
Hallo! Hallo! Here we are again!"
sang the draft, to the accompaniment of the mouth organs, the battalion joining in with a lusty roar of welcome.
"Lumme, Tiddler! They're a bloomin' fine lot!" was Harry Hawke's approving comment. "And if there ain't our little 'ero with two blinkin' stars on 'is blinkin' sleeve! Are we down'earted?"
And eleven hundred and fifty throats gave a thunderous "NO!" as the draft halted.