“It’s lovely to have you all,” said Norah. She looked over the three—all tall fellows, lean and bronzed, with quiet faces and deep-set eyes, Blake bore a sergeant’s stripes; Dick Harrison’s sleeve modestly proclaimed him a lance-corporal.
“We’ve been wandering in that funny old London like lost sheep,” Blake said. “My word, that’s a lonesome place, if you don’t happen to know any one in it. And people look at you as if you were something out of a Zoo.”
“They’re not used to you yet,” said Norah. “It’s the hat, as much as anything.”
“I don’t know about that,” Harry said. “No, I think they’d know we came out of a different mob, even if we weren’t branded.”
“Perhaps they would—and you certainly do,” Norah answered. “But come on to the house. Dad is just as anxious to see you as any one.”
Indeed, as they came in sight of the house, David Linton was seen coming with long strides to meet them.
“Hardress told me you had suddenly turned into a Marathon runner at the sight of three big hats!” he said. “How are you, Harry? It’s an age since we saw you.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Harry shook hands warmly, and introduced his friends. “You haven’t changed either, Mr. Linton.”
“I ought to be aging—only Norah won’t hear of it,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “She bullies me more hopelessly than ever, Harry.”
“She always did,” Trevor agreed. “Oh, I want to talk about Billabong for an hour! How’s Brownie, Nor? and Murty O’Toole? and Black Billy? How do you manage to live away from them?”