François, then pale, worn and suffering from a serious wound, was now straight as an arrow, ruddy of cheek, and in gallant array of blue and red.
“I’ve heard all about how you and brother here,” he said to Billy, “saved for mother the family fortune, and it would make your ears burn were I to tell you all else that has been related of your courage and fidelity.”
“Go lightly on that, please,” was Billy’s modest plea; “let’s talk about something different—cabbages or kings, for instance.”
François laughed. “Same old boy, I see, bound to bloom under cover. Oh, well, you can’t get away from your record, so have it as you please.”
“Say, Billy,” broke in Henri, “I haven’t had a chance to tell you before, but the bold Britons have broken into Enos, and that storm caused us to miss the grand entry. It was something of a scrap, too, I hear.”
“Don’t worry about that,” observed François; “just take a run over to Smyrna instead; you will get all the thrills you desire there along about now—the allies’ aviators are scattering bombs all over the place.”
“There’s a chance for the ‘Sikorsky’ to show them a thing or two in the way of distributing fireworks.”
Henri recalled the showering the Russian lieutenants gave Constantinople as they passed over the ancient city coming down from the Bosphorus.
“What’s your route?” inquired Billy.
“Don’t know exactly,” replied François, “but I fancy it will be the Dardanelles for us. The transports have been waiting for several days to take our troops somewhere.”