They splashed together down the muddy village street. “We've got thirteen minutes before tattoo.... My name's Walters, what's yours?” He spoke in a low voice in short staccato phrases.
“Andrews.”
“Andrews, you've got to keep this dark. If everybody finds out about it we're through. It's a shame you're not a Kappa Mu, but college men have got to stick together, that's the way I look at it.”
“Oh, I'll keep it dark enough,” said Andrews.
“It's too good to be true. The general order isn't out yet, but I've seen a preliminary circular. What school d'you want to go to?”
“Sorbonne, Paris.”
“That's the stuff. D'you know the back room at Baboon's?”
Walters turned suddenly to the left up an alley, and broke through a hole in a hawthorn hedge.
“A guy's got to keep his eyes and ears open if he wants to get anywhere in this army,” he said.
As they ducked in the back door of a cottage, Andrews caught a glimpse of the billowy line of a tile roof against the lighter darkness of the sky. They sat down on a bench built into a chimney where a few sticks made a splutter of flames.