“Bob,” I said, “I want to get back to my hotel. I wish you’d see me safe, chaperone me, convoy me, or whatever you call the thing I want you to do.”
Bland tugged at my sleeve.
“Get him to take me to the post-office,” he said. “I’ll have another go at getting a telegram through.”
“Bob,” I said, “this is my friend Mr. Bland. He’s a war correspondent and he wants to get to the post-office.”
My return to the hotel was simple enough. The police kept out of the way of Bob’s men. The other soldiers let him and his regiment pass without challenge. Bland, faithful to his professional duties, poured out questions as we went along.
“How’s it managed?” he said. “Why aren’t you at each other’s throats?”
“So far as we’re concerned,” said Bob, “there’s nothing to fight about. We don’t object to the soldiers or the police. We’re loyal men.”
“Oh, are you?” said Bland.
“Quite.”
“Unless our meeting’s interrupted to-morrow,” I said.