Alost, at a sign from him, started off westward through the woods. Souchez followed. Renoux leaned back against a big walnut tree and signified that he would remain there.
So Barres and Westmore moved forward to the right, very cautiously, circling the rear of the old brick hotel where a line of ruined horse-sheds and a rickety barn screened them from view of the hotel’s south windows.
So close to the tavern did they pass that they could hear the noisy singing very distinctly and see through the open windows the movement of shadowy figures under the paling light of a ceiling lamp.
Westmore ventured nearer in hopes of getting a better view from the horse-sheds; and Barres crept after him through the rank growth of swale and weeds.
“Look at them!” whispered Westmore. “They’re in a sort of uniform, aren’t they?”
“They’ve got on green jackets and stable-caps! Do you see that stack of rifles in the corner of the tap-room?”
“There’s Skeel!” muttered Westmore, “the man in the long cloak sitting by the fireplace with his face buried in his hands!”
“He looks utterly done in,” whispered Barres. “Probably he can’t manage that gang and he begins to realise it. Hark! You can hear every word of that thing they’re singing.”
Every word, indeed, was a yell or a shout, and distinct enough at that. They were roaring out “Green Jackets”:
“Oh, Irish maids love none but those