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I slipped away through an opening in the curious throng, and hastened across the open parade toward the messroom. I felt dust-covered and bruised from my rough experiences, and hoped to discover opportunities for a bath. The building called the mess-room was long, running nearly half the length of the stockade, built like the others of logs, two stories in height, and containing a number of rooms.
That evening, in the bedroom that John shared with Sutton, they sat on two beds, discussing their prospects. Gwinnie was voluble. "They've driven us out of our messroom with their beastliness. We shall have to sit in our bedrooms all the time." "We'd better let the office know we're here," said Sutton, "in case we're sent for." "Anyhow," said Charlotte, "I'm not going to bed." John smiled.
If they thought he was going to take it lying down "McClane can keep me out of my messroom, but he can't keep me out of my job. There's room in 'the line of fire' for both of us." "How are you going to get into it?" said Sutton. "Same way as McClane. If he can go to Head Quarters, so can I." "I wouldn't," Sutton said. "It might give a bad impression. Our turn'll come before long."
It was Baring who came in with the news, and none who saw it ever forgot his face as he threw open the messroom door. It was like the face of a man suddenly stricken with a mortal hurt. "Heavens, man! What's the matter?" the colonel exclaimed, at sight of him. "You look as if as if " Baring glanced round till his eyes fell upon Ronnie, and, when he spoke, he seemed to be addressing him alone.
The other pilots were gathering in the messroom, where a fire was going. Some one started the phonograph. Fritz Kreisler was playing the "Chansons sans Paroles." This was followed by a song, "Oh, movin' man, don't take ma baby grand."
"I shall manage it," said Frank, with a laugh; and not very long after they were on their way to the Guards' messroom, both trying to appear cool and unconcerned, but each feeling nervous at the idea of dining with the officers.
Vaguely for a moment she wondered why Billy had come for her and not John; then she was frightened. "Billy John isn't hurt, is he?" "No. Rather not. A bit done up. I made him go and lie down.... Look here, we must get out of this." The McClane Corps were gathered on their side of the messroom.
Rankin and Sutton talking on the balcony. In that dreadful messroom you heard everything. "What do you suppose it was then?" Mrs. Rankin said. And Sutton, "Oh, I don't know. Something upset him." "If he's going to be upset like that every time he'd better go home." They were talking she knew they were talking about John. "Hallo, Charlotte, we haven't left you much tea." "It doesn't matter."
"Noah has sure been herdin' 'em in," said another puncher. Meanwhile, "Noah" stood in the messroom doorway, arms folded and face beaming. His attitude invited applause, and won it. Eventually his reputation as a "pie-artist" spread far and wide. When it leaked out that he had wrought his masterpieces with a spur, there was some murmuring.
And there's McClane swearing he'll get us out of Belgium. But he won't!" She didn't care. She had got used to it as she had got used to the messroom and its furnishings, the basket chairs and backless benches, the two long tables covered with white marbled American leather, the photographs of the King and Queen of the Belgians above the chimney piece.
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