“We’ve had the time of our lives!” was the cheery comment. “After Mons we were left in a field hospital with a mixed crowd of British, French, and Germans. Of course, we looked after all alike, and that saved our bacon, because even a German general had to try and behave decently when he found a thousand of his own men in our care. So he sent us to Brussels with a safe conduct, and from Brussels we were allowed to make for Ostend—had to leg it, though, the last twenty miles to the Belgian outposts. Then we refitted, and started for Bruges, where we’ve been at work in a convent for five weeks. The remnant of the Belgian army passed through Bruges yesterday and the day before, so we cleared out all possible cases, and started away with the crocks early this morning. At the last minute we were hustled a bit by a Taube dropping bombs on the station. One bomb took from us a van-load of kit. We haven’t a thing except the stretchers and what we’re wearing.”
“I’ll ride on now, and meet you at Ostend,” said Dalroy. He had not the heart to damp the spirits of the party by telling of the chaos awaiting them. Sufficient for the next hour would be the evil thereof.
“I say, it’s awfully good of you to take all this trouble,” said the doctor.
“I’ve lost my job with the departure of our troops, so I had to find something to do,” smiled the other.
A fleet of Belgian armoured cars cleared a road through the stream of fugitives, and Dalroy kept close in rear, so he made a fast return journey. Dashing past the town station, near which the steam-tram would disgorge its freight, he headed straight for the Gare Maritime. It was now dusk, but he saw at once that the crowd besieging the entrance was denser and more frantic than ever, though the last steamer whose departure was announced officially had left early in the day.
He ascertained from a helpless policeman that the rumour had gone round of a vessel coming in; the sullen, apathetic multitude, waiting there for it knew not what chance of rescue, had suddenly become dangerous.
“The American Consul, who has worked hard all day, has had to give it up,” added the man. “He is closing his office.”
Just then a harbour official, minus his cap, and with coat badly torn during a violent passage through the mob, strode by, breathless but hurried.
Dalroy recognised him, having had much business with the port authorities during the preceding week.
“Is it true that a steamer is in sight?” he asked.