"That's liable to happen here, too," remarked Bodkins, not very reassuringly. "We're only a few kilometers from the front. But what do we care, boys! Isn't there a dandy underground shelter right back of the quarters for us to drop into when things get a bit too squally! Why, it's got a roof of sand-bags and dirt about eight feet thick. Only a shell landing very close could do any harm; so let's cheer up."
A momentary silence ensued, and Dunstan Farrington thereupon began tapping in a very nonchalant fashion upon the table.
Any keen observer might have noticed that of all those present but one paid attention to his action. A curious, eager light instantly sprang into Don Hale's eyes; a smile curved his lips. For Dunstan, using the Morse code, was sending a message to Don, who, being a former wireless operator, of course understood.
Rather laboriously the art student spelled the words which form this sentence:
"Chase, our new member, is an odd sort of a chap. Some of the fellows think he has a yellow streak. We're curious to see what he'll do when under fire."
Humming softly, and with a twinkle in his eye, Don sauntered over to the table, and, in a considerably more expert manner than his fellow driver, made a series of taps upon its surface.
Dunstan had no difficulty in translating the following:
"Don't judge too soon. Give him a chance. I'll bet he'll make good."
Dunstan replied:
"A grouch of the first class, Don."