"I'm afraid I don't—— Why, it's Dacres!"
"Right, old boy! But you haven't answered my question. What are you doing in Brussels at this lively moment?"
Dick Dacres was an old St. Cyprian's boy. He was Kenneth's senior by several years, having left the Upper Sixth while young Everest was still in the Third. Kenneth ought to have recognized him sooner, for he had been Dacres's fag for one term.
"Let's get out of this crush," continued Dacres, grasping his old schoolfellow by the arm. Once clear of the crowd he noticed for the first time the lad's shabby clothes, but with inborn courtesy he refrained from passing any remark that might cause any confusion on the part of young Everest. "I'm out here on service; can't give you any particulars. What are you doing here?"
"I'm with Barrington—you remember him? We're corporals of the 9th Regiment of the Line—motor-cyclist section."
"Indeed! Where is Barrington?"
"In bed with a sprained ankle. Would you like to see him? It isn't very far."
Dacres glanced at his watch.
"I should, only I can't stop very long. I have an appointment with the——" He broke off suddenly.
"You're not in uniform, I see."