“At any rate, if she comes to the docks she will have your brother to deal with,” said the big man. “And here we are.”
They got out at the big gate where the Irish policeman greeted Cecilia with a friendly “Did ye find it now, miss?” and beamed upon her when she held up her wrist, with her watch safely in its place. He examined her companions' passports, but let her through with an airy “Sure, this young lady's all right,” which made Cecilia feel that no further proof could be needed of her respectability. Then Bob came hurrying to meet her.
“I was just beginning to get uneasy about you,” he said. “Did you have any trouble?”
“My taxi broke down,” Cecilia answered. “But this lady and gentleman most kindly gave me a seat, and saved me ever so much trouble. I'll tell you my story presently.”
Bob turned, saluting.
“Thanks, awfully,” he said. “I wasn't too happy at letting my little sister run about alone in a strange city, but it couldn't be helped.”
“I'm very glad we were there,” said the big man. “Now, can you tell me where luggage should go? My son and a friend are somewhere on the pier, I suppose, but it doesn't seem as though finding them would be an easy matter.”
The pier, indeed, resembled a hive in which the bees have broken loose. Beside it lay the huge bulk of the transport, towering high above all the dock buildings near. Already she swarmed with Australian soldiers, and a steady stream was still passing aboard by the overhead gangway to the blare and crash of a regimental march. The pier itself was crowded with officers, with a sprinkling of women and children—most of them looking impatient enough at being kept ashore instead of being allowed to seek their quarters on the ship. Great heaps of trunks were stacked here and there, and a crane was steadily at work swinging them aboard.
“We can't go aboard yet, nobody seems to know why,” Bob said. “An individual called an embarkation officer, or something of the kind, has to check our passports; he was supposed to be here before three o'clock, but there's no sign of him yet, and every one has to wait his convenience. It's hard on the women with little children—the poor mites are getting tired and cross. Luggage can be left in the care of the ship's hands, to be loaded; I'll show you where, sir, if you like. Is this yours?” His eye fell on a truck-load of trunks, wheeled up by a porter, and lit up suddenly as he noticed the name on their labels.
“Oh—are you Mr. Linton?” he exclaimed. “I believe I've got a letter for you, from General Harran.”