“You, Streeling!” he cried. “What, in the name of mischief, brings you here? That light of yours will rouse the neighborhood.”
“Put it out, somebody,” said the new-comer. “I only fired it as we emerged from the wood. I felt no desire to test your sentries, thanks.”
“Well, what have you come for?”
“And why shouldn’t I take my walks abroad in the cool of the evening? Isn’t this the pacified zone?”
Gerard’s brother-commander was a facetious little man, melancholy by nature, and with a melancholy history, which he kept to himself.
“Let’s go into your hut and I’ll tell you,” he said. “Have you anything left to drink?”
“Only brandy.”
“Lucky fellow to have plenty of spirits still!” He settled himself, by right of sodality, in the rocking-chair, the proprietor of the shanty crouching on the bed.
“It’s just this,” began Streeling, with suppressed excitement. “Krayveld’s turned up at my place from the ships with important despatches. The steam-launch can’t get any farther to-night, and he says they must be taken on to the front, in any case, at once. It appears they’ve big plans for to-morrow up yonder.” He jerked his head in the direction of his hopes.
“Yes,” said Gerard, and his downcast eyelids twitched.