"Very well, Hawke, my cousin will go with us."
"Then we'll only want one other man, sir, and I'll warn Tiddler. He can smell Germans in the dark."
"That doesn't take much doing," smiled Dennis. "They're a filthy crowd, anyhow. Ten o'clock sharp! And ask Smithers if that kettle's boiling."
Harry Hawke had scarcely removed his drab figure from the doorway when Captain Dashwood blotted out the light and dived in upon them with a dexterity born of much practice.
His greeting with the Australian cousin was warm enough, but they both saw something unusual in his face as Dan squeezed up on the cot and made room for him.
"Read this, Dennis," he said. "The mater's just sent it over," and he tossed Ottilie's farewell letter across the dug-out.
"The pigs!" cried Dennis hotly. "I can't say it doesn't surprise me, because it does; but, you know, I never tumbled either to the man or to his sister. What does the governor say?"
"He's very sick," replied Bob. "Especially as he gave the whole show away in his letter. Luckily the mater took it from the postman herself, and she doesn't think they can possibly have seen it. But there it is—one never knows. It is the beastly ingratitude that gets over me. The mater rigged that girl out from top to toe, and paid her jolly well, too, and Van Drissel had the run of the house, and then went away with three boxes of the brigadier's cigars into the bargain. A German isn't a human being when you come to look at it—he's just a mean beast, a bully when he's top dog, and a grovelling worm when he's cornered. Does your crush take many prisoners, Dan?"
Dan Dunn smiled, and his faultless teeth gleamed in the coffee-brown of his face.
"Am I compelled to answer that question, your worship?" he said, with an odd twinkle in his grey eyes, but he had already answered it to their complete satisfaction. "Do you?" he said.