A coil of rope was dexterously flung and the end made fast; then, to everyone's surprise, the window of the pilot's cabin was lowered, and the head and shoulders of Lieutenant Derek Daventry were revealed.
"What have you been up to, old bird?" enquired Kaye, as his chum ascended the pier steps.
"Keeping late hours," replied Derek, with a prodigious yawn. "An' now I'm going to sleep the clock round."
It is one thing to make a resolution and quite another to keep it. Derek, having reported himself, promptly retreated to his quarters, bolted the door, undressed, and turned in.
Three hours later—it was a few minutes after the morning papers had arrived—he was aroused by a tremendous hubbub outside. The door rattled and shook under the hammer-like blows of half a dozen lusty officers.
"Open the door!" they bawled.
"Push off!" replied Derek. "Rag someone else; but for goodness sake let me alone!"
But with an utter disregard for official warnings concerning the care and maintenance of private buildings appropriated for official use, the boisterous crew without promptly charged the door with their shoulders. Locks and hinges were not proof against the onslaught, and, with a crash, the woodwork was burst, and a swarm of officers poured in, headed by Kaye, who was brandishing a copy of The Times.
"Here you are!" exclaimed Kaye, when the uproar had somewhat subsided. "From last night's Gazette: 'Awarded the D.S.O.: Lieutenant Derek Daventry, R.A.F., for valuable services rendered under heavy hostile fire whilst engaged upon machine-gunning and bombing enemy trenches; also for good work performed in the destruction of enemy air-craft both at home and on the Western Front'."
"Are you fellows trying to pull my leg?" enquired Derek grimly, as he ostentatiously handled the water-jug. "If so——"