This room was on the same side of the house as his bedroom. He went at once to a side window, and pulling up the shade a couple of inches, peered into the night. For a time he could see nothing. Then as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he made out the shadowy forms of six men in a group on the driveway near the house. While he watched, they separated, and one walked back to the entrance, the others took up positions behind the trees that lined the drive.
“Queer,” muttered Bill. “They evidently think he’s coming out again.”
He pulled down the shade and went upstairs. Charlie was curled up in an armchair, wrapped in the bathrobe, that was at least six sizes too big for him.
“Well, what’s up?” he asked, as his tall, broad-shouldered young friend came into the room.
“They’re posted along the drive.”
“Gee, we’ll never get out of here tonight,” grumbled the youngster.
“Suppose,” said Bill, “you start at the beginning and tell me why we have to leave here tonight. What you’re doing here in Connecticut—all about it, in fact.”
“Well, let’s see—” Charlie yawned prodigiously. “I don’t know where to start.”
“You don’t have to start so very far back,” prompted Bill. “We came up to New York from Washington together a little over two weeks ago.”
“We sure did! After you got that medal pinned on you by the President—gosh!—I never thought I’d shake hands with the President of the United States—and have him tell me I was a hero—before all those people, too! It was swell!”