“I say, what Army are you?”
“First.”
“So’m I,” joyfully, “p’raps we’ll go up together.”
“I hope so, but we shall have to stop here the night, I expect.”
Even as he said so a notice was hung outside the little wooden office: “Officers of the First Army returning from leave will report to the R.T.O., Gare Centrale, at 10.00 A.M. to-morrow, Saturday, 17th instant.”
“That settles it,” said the elder man, “come along, and we’ll go to the Officers’ Club and bag a couple of beds.”
“Nineteen hours,” wailed the other, “in this beastly place! What on earth shall we find to do?”
“Don’t worry about that—there is usually some one to whom one can write.” It was both a hint and a question.
“Yes—ra—ther!”
They had tea, and afterwards the boy wrote a long letter, in which he said a great deal more to the mother who received it than was actually written on the paper. The Lonely One sat for some time in front of the fire, and finally scribbled a card. It was addressed to some place in the wilds of Scotland, and it bore the one word “Thanks.”