“Hadn’t I better serve your dinner, sir?” he inquired tentatively. “I am sure the captain would not like you to be kept waiting. Something important must have detained him, sir, for he is always punctual to the moment, and of course there being no telephone——”
“Thank you, but I will wait a little longer. If he is not back by half-past eight perhaps I will have something to eat, as I can’t get anything anywhere else now.”
“Thank you, sir,” and the man retired with noiseless tread.
But at half-past eight neither Preston nor Yootha had returned, nor had they by half-past nine. Johnson had waited until nine, then had eaten a light meal and gone away.
The ex-soldier was becoming anxious.
He pulled out of his pocket the long envelope addressed to his master, which had been brought by a man in flannels who had appeared to him a gentleman and had assured him the letter was most urgent and must be delivered at the earliest possible moment.
“I wonder if this would throw some light on it?” he said aloud, as he eyed the envelope suspiciously. “So help me, I’d like to know.”
It was a gorgeous night, without a breath of air, and as warm as in the tropics. As the man stood on the deck of the house-boat smoking a cigar and with his hands in his pockets, his thoughts traveled back to the many hardships he and his master had endured together in France during the three years he had served under him; of the tight corners they had more than once found themselves in; and of his master’s extraordinary coolness in moments of extreme crisis.
“Ah, if they was all like him,” he said reflectively, “we should have an army, and no mistake!”
For, like many another British Tommy who had been face to face with death alongside his officers, the fellow worshiped Preston. In such high esteem did he hold him, indeed, that sometimes his friends would grow weary of hearing “Captain Preston’s” many virtues extolled by the faithful servant, and curtly bid him “shut up.”