“No, Pottle,” replied Jack, “it was only a dream.”
For a moment there was silence and then they all broke into peals of laughter, laughter that seemed so strange and out of place in these days frought with war’s devastation.
So they had the good sense to check their merriment, especially as they saw the eyes of many surprised men and women upon them.
They soon left the dining room, and prepared to leave Louvain. Late that afternoon arrangements were completed.
Regretful good-byes were said to plucky little de Garros, whose demonstrative eyes were wet as he clasped their hands in farewell.
“We may nevaire meet again,” he stammered, “but I nevaire forget you all.”
“Nor will we forget you!” cried Jack warmly. “You—you, if it hadn’t been for you——”
“Read—ee, mon ami, you ’ave forget what you do for me long ago. A fair exchange. You save my life.”
“You’re fine,” exploded Pottle. “Legion of Honor cross for you—long war—much dead—much wounded—but you’ll live!”
A prediction, strangely enough, that came true.