"You know," said the India-rubber Man presently, "I was thinking to-night--up there, along the river--how good it all is, this little old England of ours. I sat on a big boulder and watched a child in the distance driving some cows across a meadow to be milked.... There wasn't a leaf stirring, and the only sounds were the sleepy noises of the river.... It was all just too utterly peaceful and good." The India-rubber Man puffed his pipe in silence for a moment. "It struck me then," he went on in his slow, even tones, "that any price we can pay--any amount of sacrifice, hardship, discomfort--is nothing as long as we keep this quiet peace undisturbed...." Again he lapsed into silence, as if following some deep train of thought; the sound of the donkey cropping the gra.s.s came from the other side of the bush.

"One doesn't think about it in that way--up there," he jerked his head towards the North. "You just do your job for the job's sake, as one does in peace-time. Even the fellows who die, die as if it all came in the day's work." His mind reverted to its original line of thought.

"But even dying is a little thing as long as all this is undefiled."

He smoked in silence for a minute.

"Death!" he continued jerkily, as if feeling for his ideas at an unaccustomed depth. "I've seen so much of Death, Betty: in every sort of guise and disguise, and I'm not sure that he isn't only the biggest impostor, really. A bogie to frighten happiness.... A turnip-mask with a candle inside, stuck up just round some corner along the road of life."

"You never know which corner it is, though," said Betty. She nodded her head like a wise child. "That's why it's frightening--sometimes."

For a while longer they talked with their elbows on the table and their faces very close, exchanging those commonplace yet intimate sc.r.a.ps of philosophy which only two can share. Then the India-rubber Man fetched a pail of water from the river, and together they washed up.

"I met Clavering away up the river this evening," he said presently.

"He said they'd come down after supper and bring the banjo," and as he spoke they heard the murmur of voices along the river bank. Two figures loomed up out of the darkness and entered the circle of light from the brazier.

"Good hunting!" said a girl's clear voice. "Garry was feeling musically inclined, and so we brought the Joe with us."

The India-rubber Man returned from the direction of the tent, carrying rugs and coats which he proceeded to spread on the ground.

"We're pushing on to-morrow," continued Clavering's deep voice. "There are some lakes in the hills we want to reach while this fine weather lasts. What are your movements, Standish? Keep somewhere near us, so that we can have our sing-songs of an evening sometimes."

"We'll follow," replied the India-rubber Man. "Nebuchadnezzar ought to have a day's rest to-morrow, and then we'll pick up the trail. Your old caravan oughtn't to be difficult to trace. Did you do any good on the river this evening...?"

They settled down among the rugs, and for a while the conversation ran on the day's doings. Then Etta Clavering drew her banjo from its case.

"What shall we have?" she asked, fingering the strings: and without further pause she struck a few opening chords and began in her musical contralto:

"Under the wide and starry sky..."

The slow, haunting melody floated out into the night, and Betty, seated beside her husband, felt his hand close firmly over hers as it rested among the folds of the rug. The warm glow of the fire lit the faces of the quartette and the white throat of the singer.

"Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill..."

The last notes died away, and before anyone could speak the banjo broke out into a gay jingle, succeeded in turn by an old familiar ballad in which they all joined. Then Clavering cleared his throat and in his deep baritone sang:

"Sing me a song of a lad that is gone Over the hills to Skye,"

A few c.o.o.n songs followed, with the four voices, contralto and baritone, tenor and soprano, blending in harmony. Then Etta Clavering drew her fingers across the strings and declared it was time for bed.

"One more," pleaded Betty. "Just one more. You two sing."

Etta Clavering turned her head and eyed her husband; her eyes glittered in the starlight and there was a gleam of white teeth as she smiled.

She tentatively thrummed a few chords.

"Shall we, Garry?"

Her husband nodded. "Yes," he said, "that one." He took his pipe from his mouth. "Go ahead...."

So together they sang "Friendship," that perfection of old-world romance which is beyond all art in its utter simplicity.

The banjo was restored to its case at length, and the singers rose to depart. Farewells were exchanged and plans for the future, while the four strolled together to the edge of the woods.

"Well," said Clavering, "we shall see you again the day after to-morrow, with any luck."

Etta Clavering turned towards Betty. "Isn't it nice to dare to look ahead as far as that?" she asked with a little smile. "Fancy! The day after to-morrow! Good night--good night!"

Betty and the India-rubber Man stood looking after them until they were swallowed by the darkness. Then he placed his arm round his wife's shoulders, and together they retraced their steps across the clearing towards the tent.

"This is the place," said the Young Doctor. He piloted his companion aside from the throng of Regent Street traffic and turned in at a narrow doorway. Pushing open a swing door that bore on its gla.s.s panels the inscription "MEMBERS ONLY," he motioned the First Lieutenant up a flight of stairs. "You wait till you get to the top, Number One,"

he said, "you'll forget you're ash.o.r.e."

"Thank you," said the First Lieutenant as they ascended, "but I don't know that I altogether want to forget it."

They had reached the threshold of a small ante-room hung about with war-trophies and crowded with Naval officers. The majority were standing about chatting eagerly in twos and threes, while a girl with a tray of gla.s.ses steered a devious course through the crush and took or fulfilled orders. Through an open doorway beyond they caught a glimpse of more uniformed figures, and the tobacco-laden air hummed with Navy-talk and laughter.

The Young Doctor hung his cap and stick on the end of the banisters and elbowed his way to the doorway, exchanging greetings with acquaintances.

"Come in here," he said over his shoulder to the First Lieutenant, "and let's see if there's anyone from the ship--hullo! I didn't expect to see this----" He made a gesture towards the empty fireplace. There, seated upon the club-fender, with his right hand in his trousers pocket and his expression of habitual gloom upon his countenance, sat Mouldy Jakes. His left sleeve hung empty at his side, and from the breast of a conspicuously new-looking monkey-jacket protruded a splint swathed about in bandages. A newly-healed scar showed pink across his scalp.

A laughing semi-circle sat round apparently in the enjoyment of some anecdote just concluded. A Submarine Commander of almost legendary fame stood by the fender examining something in a little morocco case.

Mouldy Jakes turned a melancholy eye upon the newcomers.

"More of 'em," he said in tones of dull despair. "What d'you want--Martini or Manhattan?"

"Martini," replied the Young Doctor, advancing, "both of us; but why this reckless hospitality, Mouldy? Are you celebrating an escape from the nursing home?"

The Submarine man closed the case with a little snap and handed it back to Mouldy Jakes.

"We're just celebrating Mouldy's acquisition of that bauble," he explained. "He's been having the time of his life at Buckingham Palace all the morning."

"Not 'arf," confirmed the hero modestly. "Proper day-off, I've been having!" He raised his voice. "Two more Martinis an' another plain soda, please, Bobby."

The First Lieutenant laughed.

"Who's the soda water for--me?"

Mouldy shook his head lugubriously.

"No," he replied, "me. There was another bird there this morning being lushed up to a bar to his D.S.O.--an R.N.R. Lieutenant called Gedge.

What you'd call a broth of a boy. We had lunch together afterwards."

The speaker sighed heavily and pa.s.sed his hand across his forehead. "I think we must have had tea too," he added meditatively.

The Young Doctor looked round the laughing circle of faces. "Where is he? Did you bring him along with you?"

Mouldy Jakes shook his head and reached out for his soda water. "No ... he went to sleep...."

The Young Doctor sat down on the fender beside the speaker. "How's the hand getting on, old lad?"