With startling clearness, with startling suddenness, the 'phone bell began to ring.
No one uttered an exclamation; no one spoke. But every head was turned on the instant toward Gideon Watts, whose loud "Hello!" sounded simultaneously with the ending of the ringing of the bell.
Every one stepped nearer the counter; every one waited with the utmost eagerness—the utmost interest—to hear the words which would presently fall from the sous chef's lips.
And only an instant elapsed before they came.
"All right, Monsieur le Médecin," he cried. "We'll attend to it right away." Then facing the aviator's son, he added: "A hurry call from Montaurennes, Don—'tres pressé,' too, says the Médecin Savoye. Sorry, old chap. I guess you'll find it isn't any joke, either, getting to the post."
But Don Hale did not wait even to make a reply. Rushing to the bench, he picked up his gas mask and steel helmet, suspended one over his shoulders and slapped the other upon his head.
"Quick, Chase!" he called. "So-long, fellows!"
Then the boy dashed out of the room and in another moment reached the courtyard.
By the aid of his pocket flash-light he cranked the car. The explosive roar and hum of the motor suddenly started up, and, as it began to subside into a series of soft rhythmic notes, Don sprang to his seat. He heard the sound of a door slamming shut and the patter of rapid footsteps—Chase was hurrying over.
Without a word the young chap from Maine climbed up beside him.