Dick surveyed his surroundings in his customary optimistic manner. The cobbled square was already hidden by a dazzling white mantle. The roofs of the old buildings and the detached pillared market-house were covered with fallen flakes. A weather-worn statue, poised stolidly upon a lofty pedestal, was fast resembling the time-honoured character of Father Christmas.
Save for a few belated lady-clerks of the Army Pay Department, who cast curious glances at the two snow-flaked motor-cyclists as they hastened to their daily toil, the square was deserted. At the corner of an adjacent street two recruiting sergeants stood in meditative silence, regarding with a set purpose the pair of strapping youths.
"More of 'em, by Jove!" exclaimed Dick, as his eyes caught those of one of the representatives of His Majesty's Army. "Here they come, old man. Stand by to give 'em five rounds rapid."
"Nothin' doing, sergeant," announced Athol as the foremost non-com., beaming affably, vouchsafed some remark about the weather as a preliminary feeler to a more important topic. His companion had diplomatically "frozen on" to Dick.
With a dexterity acquired by much practice each lad unbuttoned his mackintosh coat and from the inner breast pocket of his coat produced a formidable-looking document.
"Bless my soul!" ejaculated the first sergeant. "Who'd a' thought it? Very good, sir; we can't touch you—at least, not yet. You never know."
"You speak words of wisdom, sergeant," rejoined Athol, as he replaced his paper. "Now, to get back to more immediate surroundings, what do you think of our chances of getting to Ludlow to-day?"
"On that thing?" asked the sergeant. "Not much. It's as thick as can be over Wenlock Edge. This is nothing to what's it's like up there. You'd never get through."
The word "never" put Dick on his mettle.
"We'll have a jolly good shot at it, anyway," he said. "Come along, Athol, old man. Hop in and we'll have a shot at this Excelsior business."