"For to-night's fancy dress ball," replied Barcroft. "A suit of mufti for each of us. We appear in the characters of the Continental knockabouts."
"What do you mean?" asked Fuller.
"Simply that we must make tracks at once, before Corporal Pfeil and Company return. Obviously we cannot hope to wander unmolested over the country if we stick to our flying kit, so with my characteristic regard for your welfare I have procured a stock of second-hand clothes for your inspection and choice. We'll push on for a couple of miles or so and then hide until it's dark. Then, with luck, over the frontier we jog, without running the risk of being interned by the Dutch authorities."
The contents of the bag were emptied upon the floor—a weird collection of musty and for the most part dirty and ragged clothes.
"Must we, or musty?" inquired Kirkwood sniffing disdainfully
"Both," replied Barcroft decidedly. "Look alive. Pity to have to sacrifice our coats, though. Mine cost me eighty-five shillings only a month ago. Keep your revolvers. They'll stow in the coat-pockets."
The change of raiment was speedily effected. The discarded gear, folded in as tight compass as possible, was stowed away on the beams of the barn.
"Who knows," remarked the A.P., "but that we may have a chance of recovering our kit, when the Boches have been driven out of Belgium? My word, Billy, you look absolutely IT! Tired Tim or Weary Willy must be your character."
"You speak for yourself, old sport," retorted Barcroft laughing. "You're positively not respectable. We tolerate your presence only on sufferance. Matter of fact, Tired Tim does suit me," he added, stifling a yawn. "I'm as dog-tired as a fellow can possibly be. And what might you be supposed to represent, John—a Belgian hare?"
"That's about it," replied Fuller languidly. "The main thing is to keep warm, and trust to luck to get a hot bath later. Some fit, eh, what?"