the lower stays and then ducking under the planes, as she
gathered way, and just missing decapitation. It's a way they have. She
took a run for it, her engine humming like a top, and then rose, and
gradually climbed the sky. Peter gazed at her wistfully. "And he
promised to take me up some day," he said sadly.

"Yes, some day, Peter," I said encouragingly. "But it's time we were
getting back. You know you've got to catch the leave-boat at four
o'clock this afternoon."

* * * * *

Peter's father and I stood on the quay, having taken farewell of Peter.
There was an eminent Staff Officer going home on leave--a very great man
at G.H.Q., a lieutenant-general, who inspired no less fear than respect
among us all. He knew Peter's father in his distant way, and had not
only returned his salute, but had even condescended to ask, in his
laconic style, "Who is the boy?"--whereupon Peter's father had, with
some nervousness, introduced him. All the other officers going home on
leave, from a Brigadier down to the subalterns, stood at a respectful
distance, glancing furtively at the hawk-like profile of the great man,
and lowering their voices. It was a tribute not only to rank but to
power. As the ship gathered way and moved slowly out of the harbour I
pulled the sleeve of Peter's father. "Look!" I said. The
Lieutenant-General and Peter were engaged in an animated conversation on
the deck, and the great man, usually as silent as the sphinx and not
less inscrutable, was evidently contesting with some warmth and great
interest, as though hard put to keep his end up, some point of debate
propounded to him by Peter.

"T----, old chap," I said, "Peter'll be a great man some day."

Peter's father said nothing, but his eyes grew misty. Perhaps he was
thinking of that lonely grave in the distant plains of the Deccan where
Peter's mother sleeps.

XVII

THREE TRAVELLERS

(_October 1914_)

My train left Paris at 1.52 in the afternoon. It was due at Calais at
eight o'clock the same evening. But it soon became apparent that
something was amiss with our journey--we crawled along at a pace which
barely exceeded six miles an hour. At every culvert, guarded by its
solitary sentry, we seemed to pause to take breath. As we approached
Amiens, barely halfway on our journey, somewhere about 9.30 P.M., we
passed on the opposite line of rails a Red Cross train, stationary, and
throwing deep rhomboid shadows