"Damn it all!" The Major's voice was irritable. "Why, his knowledge of the lingo alone makes him invaluable."
"Frankly, I've been expecting to hear of his death every day. He's not the type that says a thing of that sort without meaning it."
A step sounded on the floor above. "Look out, here he is. You'll stop and have a bit of lunch, Bill?"
As he spoke the light in the doorway was blocked out, and a man came uncertainly down the stairs.
"Confound these cellars. One can't see a thing, coming in out of the daylight. Who's that? Halloa, Bill, old cock, 'ow's yourself?"
"Just tottering, Jim. Where've you been?"
"Wandered down to Vlamertinghe this morning early to see about some sandbags, and while I was there I met that flying wallah Petersen in the R.N.A.S. Do you remember him, Major? He was up here with an armoured car in May. He told me rather an interesting thing."
"What's that, Jim?" The Major was attacking a brawn with gusto. "Sit down, Bill. Whisky and Perrier in that box over there."
"He tells me the Huns have got six guns whose size he puts at about 9-inch; guns, mark you, not howitzers—mounted on railway trucks at Tournai. From there they can be rushed by either branch of the line—the junction is just west—to wherever they are required."
"My dear old boy," laughed Bill, as he sat down. "I don't know your friend Petersen, and I have not the slightest hesitation in saying that he is in all probability quite right. But the information seems to be about as much use as the fact that it is cold in Labrador."