"Darby said that wouldn't do for Scotch regiments, because 'greet' was Gaelic for 'cry.'"
"I found him," said the Professor, returning, "but so also had Crabbit."
He held up a large bandanna rent across by sharp teeth. Stafford stared at the pocket-handkerchief thoughtfully, and Crabbit wagged his tail pleasantly.
"War is a dreadful thing!" said Dearest George, rushing back. "Too many complications. Confound it, Gheena, it's your wool again!" His plunge into space was checked by the Professor's plump shoulder. "Several suspicious characters hanging round the wireless. Two cars puncturing on the road just outside and taking an unreasonable time to repair. Oh, yes, they took their numbers quite cleverly. And people asking the way, and they've seen a submarine outside the bay. English or German? Oh, German, of course, Matilda! What foolish questions you do ask! And they are afraid——"
"Here—my friend, was all this for publication?" said the Professor softly—"all?"
"There's nothing private in a sighted submarine," snapped George Freyne peevishly; "the fishermen saw her from the point. The Guinanes say they did not, although they were out at the time, but they never like to agree with anyone. Mary Talty did and Con Talty."
"What I came to tell you," said Mrs. De Burgho Keane, raising her voice and looking importantly, "was that——"
"You've dropped your hot bun," said Mrs. Freyne absently, "the butterest bit. Please, Crabbit."
"—Was that Lancelot Freyne is wounded," concluded Mrs. Keane irately. "I met his mother and Annette both in tears because the wire did not say how much though it mentioned a foot."
"Just think of Lancelot wounded! Somehow one never realized that he had really gone out," said Mrs. Freyne.