Tidshot! There was the familiar landmark—the tree-crested hill and the church. The station flashed by, and then the well-known training areas.
"Just as if I were going up to town for the week-end!" he told himself.
The familiar suburbs whizzed past. Clapham Junction, Vauxhall, the grinding of brakes, and the train was gliding quietly along Waterloo platform.
An Officer boarded the train, and, in spite of a great deal of discussion and requests, succeeded in thrusting scraps of paper into every one's hand.
"The Something Hospital, Chester Square," some one read.
"What? Oh, I thought you said 'The Empire Hospital, Leicester Square!'" yelled half-a-dozen wits almost simultaneously.
He was carried out on his stretcher, slid into a St. John Ambulance, and driven to the address on the piece of paper, which was "not a hundred miles from Berkeley Square," as the Gossip writers put it.
The Ambulance Stretcher Bearers carried him into the hall of what was evidently a private house "turned" into a hospital. A great many ladies were standing about, all in Red Cross uniform. A man was there, too. Curiously enough, he was wearing just the coat and hat that his father would wear. Could it be possible? He turned round; lo and behold, it was his father!
"Hallo, Father!" he said.
The man came up.