Then above the cheering cries was heard the battalion band, and from a thousand throats in solemn chant there rose the Empire's national anthem, “God Save the King.”
That night they steamed into old Plymouth town, and the following morning were anchored safe at Devonport dock. Strict orders held the officers and men on board ship until arrangements for debarkation should be completed, but to Barry and the doctor, the Commanding Officer gave shore leave for an hour.
“And I would suggest,” he said, “that you go and have a talk with that old boy walking up and down the dock there. Yarn to him about Canada, he's wild to know about it.”
The old naval officer was indeed “wild to know about Canada,” so that the greater part of their shore leave was spent in answering his questions, and eager though he was to explore the old historic town, before Barry knew it, he was in the full tide of a glowing description of his own Province of Alberta, extolling its great ranches, its sweeping valleys, its immense resources.
“And to think you are all British out there,” exclaimed the old salt.
“We're all British, of course,” replied Barry, “but not all from Britain.”
“I know, I know,” said the officer, “but that only makes it more wonderful.”
“Wonderful! Why, why should it be wonderful?”
“Yes, wonderful. Oh, you Canadians,” cried the old salt, impulsively stretching out his hand to Barry. “You Canadians!”
Surprised, Barry glanced at his face. Those hard blue eyes were brimming with tears; the leatherlike skin was working curiously about the mouth.