Dalroy owned only a reader’s knowledge of colloquial cockney. He inferred, rather than actually understood, that several British soldiers were secreted in the loft, and that one of them, named “Shiney Black,” had closed Von Halwig’s career in the twinkling of an eye.
By this time another man had reached the ground. He seized the rope and steadied it, and a third appeared. The first gnome whipped out a knife, freed Dalroy, unslung his rifle, and picked up the electric torch, which he held so that its beam filled the doorway. Man after man came down. Each was armed with a regulation rifle; Dalroy, for once thrown completely off his balance, became dimly aware that in every instance the equipment included bayonet, bandolier, and haversack.
The cohort formed up, too, as though they had rehearsed the procedure in the gymnasium at Aldershot. There was no muttered order, no uncertainty. Rifles were unslung, bayonets fixed, and safety catches turned over soundlessly.
Conquering his blank amazement as best he could, Dalroy inquired of the first sprite how many the party consisted of, all told.
“Twelve an’ the corp’ral, sir,” came the prompt answer. “The lucky thirteen we calls ahrselves. An’ we wanted a bit o’ luck ter leg it all the w’y from Monze to this ’ole. Not that we ’adn’t ter kill any Gord’s quantity o’ Yewlans when they troied ter be funny, an’ stop us——Here’s the corp’ral, sir.”
Dalroy was confronted by a clear-eyed man, whose square-shouldered erectness was not concealed by the unkempt clothes of a Belgian peasant. Carrying the rifle at “the slope,” and bringing his right hand smartly across to the small of the butt, the leader of this lost legion announced himself.
“Corporal Bates, sir, A Company, 2nd Battalion of the Buffs. That German officer made out, sir, that you were in our army.”
“Yes, I am Captain Dalroy, of the 2nd Bengal Lancers.”
Corporal Bates became, if possible, even more clear-eyed.
“Stationed where last year, sir?”