“Yus, sir.”
“Will you kindly take it out, and lay it gently on the table?”
Smithy obeyed, with reassuring deftness.
Dalroy was about to comment on the phenomenal risk of carrying such a destructive bomb so carelessly when he happened to notice the roll collar of a khaki tunic beneath Smithy’s blue linen blouse.
“Have you still retained part of your uniform?” he inquired.
“Oh, yus, sir. We all ’ave. We weren’t goin’ to strip fer fear of any bally Germans—beg pawdon, miss—an’ if it kime to a reel show-dahn we meant ter see it through in reggelation kit.”
Every man of twelve had retained his tunic, trousers, and puttees, which were completely covered by the loose-fitting garments supplied by the priest of a hamlet near Louvignies, who concealed them in a loft during four days until the mass of German troops had surged over the French frontier. The thirteenth, a Highlander, actually wore his kilt!
The Belgian officers grew enthused. They insisted on providing a vin d’honneur, which Irene escaped by pleading utter fatigue, and retiring to rest.
Dalroy opened his eyes next morning on a bright and sunlit world. It might reasonably be expected that his thoughts would dwell on the astounding incidents of the past month. They did nothing of the sort. He tumbled out of a comfortable bed, interviewed the proprietor of the “Trois Couronnes,” and asked that worthy man if he understood the significance of a Bank of England five-pound note. During his many and varied ’scapes, Dalroy’s store of money, carried in an inner pocket of his waistcoat, had never been touched. Monsieur le Patron knew all that was necessary about five-pound notes. Very quickly a serviceable cloth suit, a pair of boots, some clean linen, a tin bath, and a razor were staged in the bedroom, while the proprietor’s wife was instructed to attend to mademoiselle’s requirements.