The talk was all of the coming attack. Spies had reported a movement of preparation in the enemy’s ranks, and there was a stir of warning in the very air. To Velo’s amazement, no one seemed worried or anxious. The conversation moved smoothly on, as though the battle was a test of skill on a chess-board. Not a man there seemed to regard the coming event in a personal light. Even the uncertainty did not distress anyone. The attack would surely come, but whether it would come the following night or in a week’s time did not seem to matter in the least. Velo had expected to see in an event like this a lot of men brooding gloomily over the possible outcome, a dismal time with last farewells, and touching letters written home. He watched the young officer beside him. He had finished his meal and had taken out a pad of paper and an indelible pencil. He wrote rapidly, but with a calm and smiling face. Velo could not imagine any tragic farewells in that letter.
Velo, still staring at the writer, listened to the conversation along the wall of the trench. It had at last turned from war to out-door sports. Velo, who never exercised if he could avoid it, listened idly. A small, pale boy in a lieutenant’s uniform was violently upholding certain rules while the officer next to Zaidos disputed him smilingly. They argued pleasantly, but with the most intense earnestness.
“Who is that straw-colored chap?” Velo asked the writer beside him.
“Across?” questioned the scribbler. “We call him ‘Sister Anne.’ You know she was the lady in Bluebeard’s yarn that kept looking out the window. He is always sticking his head out of the trenches, to see what he can see. He’s going to get his some day.”
“Don’t you know his real name?” asked Velo. “He acts as though he thought he was somebody of importance.”
“Why, when you come down to it, I suppose perhaps he is when he is at home,” said the man. “He’s a jolly good sort, though. He’s the Earl of Craycourt.”
“And who is the chap beside my cousin?” asked Velo, steadying his voice with difficulty.
“The Prince of Teck’s second son,” answered the writer. Velo’s curiosity rather disgusted him. “Anybody else you would like to know about?”
“Well, who are you?” said Velo, trying to get back.
“Your very humble servant, John Smith,” he said. He slid the pencil down into his puttee and stood up, bowing. He did not ask Velo for his name but, closing the pad, strolled off and slid an arm around the neck of the second son of the Prince of Teck.