Whitney gave him a sympathetic nod.
"You take me wrong; I mean your countrymen. It's been stated in your parliament that they have no obligation to fight for France."
Andrew filled his pipe before he answered.
"They won't see her smashed," he said quietly.
"I'm not sure of it, after reading the English newspapers."
"You don't know us yet," Andrew replied.
Whitney smiled, for he knew that his comrade would carry out an obligation to the farthest limit; but he said nothing, and for the next few minutes Andrew thoughtfully looked about.
The sun was getting low, and dark shadows stretched across the glassy lake, but in the distance a small gray dot moved amidst a ring of widening ripples. A loon was fishing. Presently a wild, unearthly cry rang through the stillness as the bird called its mate; and after that everything was very quiet except for a soft splash of falling water a long way off. The dew was settling on the brush about the camp, and the cooling air was heavy with the fragrance of the pines. It all appealed to Andrew; the lonely woods had a strange charm for him.
"I'm lame and not much use, but it doesn't seem quite the thing to stay here enjoying myself, just now," he said. "Perhaps something I could do might turn up when I got home."
"But you haven't a home! You lived in a boat for some years, didn't you?"