"Hulloa, Barrington!"
"Hulloa, Dacres!"
That was the prosaic greeting, nothing more and nothing less; yet there was a wealth of cordial surprise in the interchange of exclamations.
The time Dacres had at his disposal was only too short. He was, he explained, a sub-lieutenant in one of the recently-raised naval brigades, and had accompanied an officer of rank upon an important mission to Belgium. More he was unable to say. He had already been to Ostend, and was now about to proceed to Antwerp.
"We're returning home to-night," he concluded. "If you like to entrust me with a letter, I'll see that it's posted safely the moment I set foot ashore in England. If I've time I'll look your people up and let them know you're doing your little bit. It all depends upon whether I can get leave, but we are hard at it whipping recruits into shape."
"Awfully decent chap," commented Kenneth, when Dick Dacres had taken his departure. "He would insist upon lending me a hundred francs. Otherwise, old man, we would be on the rocks—absolutely. I've drawn three blanks—no uniforms obtainable, no tidings of the Résimont family, and no letters from home. I think we ought to hang on here a little while until your ankle's fit. We may see the beastly Germans marching through the city, for the burgomaster has gone, so I hear, to obtain terms of capitulation."
"Where are the Belgian troops?"
"Mostly in Antwerp."
"Then if I were you, I'd make tracks for Antwerp while there's time."
"Are you fit, then?"