"Right-o," he replied to his chum's pressing invitation. "I'm on it, but I'll have to leave by the first train on Monday."
"What for?" demanded the astonished Sylvester. "Come, come, Slogger, why these unusual blushes that suffuse your cherubic visage? Do I tumble to it? Miss Greenwood? More congrats, you sly dog!"
"Yes," replied Farrar. "And I am the luckiest fellow in the whole wide world. Hullo, here's another old pal! Forgot to mention it before."
He indicated a young officer, upon whose sleeve two rings and a curl denoted that he was of the rank of lieutenant. He was limping slightly as he gripped the rail of the gangway with one hand and leant heavily upon a stick.
The Moke looked at the lieutenant, and then at the sub.
"Hanged if I can fix him," he remarked dubiously. "No, surely not?"
"Yes, it's Holcombe," declared Farrar. "Holcombe, my festive, you remember the Moke?"
"Good old Lynbury times," exclaimed Holcombe, grasping Sylvester's outstretched hand. "Of course I do. But, my word, Moke, you've altered some! Had a rotten time in Germany, I understand from Slogger; and a pretty exciting time the pair of you had in breaking out. What are you doing now?"
"Oh, just run down to have a pow-pow with Slogger," replied Sylvester. "You're coming along with us too, Holcombe. The more the merrier, if you don't mind nut-butter and a concoction of sawdust and Epsom Salts which we are beguiled into eating under the name of war-bread."
"Holcombe means, what are you doing to earn your rations, Moke?" interposed Farrar.