The sudden hoot of a motor came from the drive, far-off; and then another, and another.
“Some one’s joy-riding,” said Harry Trevor.
The hooting increased, and with it the hum of a racing car. The gravel outside the porch crunched as it drew up; and then came cheery voices, and two long figures in great coats dashed in: Jim and Wally, eager-eyed.
“Dad! Norah! Where’s old Harry?”
But Harry was grasping a hand of each, and submitting to mighty pats on the back from their other hands.
“By Jove, it’s great to see you! Where did you come from, you old reprobate? Finished Johnny Turk?”
Gradually the boys became aware that there were other people in the hall, and made apologies—interrupted by another burst of joy at discovering Garrett.
“You must think us bears,” said Jim, with his disarming smile, to Mrs. West. “But we hadn’t seen Trevor for years, and he’s a very old chum. It would have been exciting to meet him in Australia; but in England—well!”
“However did you manage to come?” Norah asked, beaming.
“Oh, we got leave. We’ve been good boys—at least, Wally was until we got your message this morning. Since then he has been wandering about like a lost fowl, murmuring, ‘Harry! My Harry!’”