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The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry; Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in no better state now it was his turn. "That is what I mean to tell you, sir," said Mr. Lorry. "Pray let there be no mistake about it." Mr.
With regard to "mopping up" in houses, the instructions state: "If the door is barricaded, it must be opened with tools or explosives. If it is a heavy door, break it in by driving a lorry at it. Clean up basements and cellars by throwing bombs down through the air holes or other openings after your men have got into the house. Only after these have exploded should the cellar doors be forced.
"Hello, dad! How's the leg?" Waring smiled in the dusk. "Pretty fair, Lorry. You didn't waste any time getting here." "Well, not much. I rode down with Bronson and Dorothy." "Do you call her 'Dorothy'?" "Ever since she calls me 'Lorry." "Had anything to eat?" "Nope. I cut across. How's mother?" "She will be here to-morrow. We have been getting things ready. Let Ramon take your horse " "Thanks.
Yet Lorry knew that he was doing right in arresting him. In fact, he felt a kind of secret pride in making the capture. It would give him a name among his fellows. But was there any glory in arresting such a man? Lorry recalled the other's wild shot as he was whirled through the brush. "He sure tried to get me!" Lorry argued. "And any man that'd hold up wimmin ought to be in the calaboose "
The camera was rushed to the photographic lorry, the plates were unloaded in the dark hut, the negatives were developed. Half an hour later I received the first proofs, and, with them, some degree of disappointment. Those covering the first outward and return journey between Pozières and Le Sars were good, as were the next three, at the beginning of the second journey.
He was so deadly pale which had not been the case when they went in together that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face. But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold wind.
The farthest hills to the south seemed but a few miles away. For some time he focused his gaze at the Notch, from which the road sprang and flowed in slow undulations to a vanishing point in the blank spaces of the west. His pony, Gray Leg, head up and nostrils working, twitched back one ear as Lorry spoke: "You see it, too?"
Bag in hand, a lace veil to be lowered later pushed back across her hat, she had tried to get the good-by over in the hall, but Lorry had followed her out to the steps. There in the revealing daylight the elder sister's smiles had died away, and scrutinizing the face under the jaunty hat, she had said sharply: "Is anything the matter, Chrystie? You know, you look quite ill.
In the litter and wreck of the field, Frank's keen eye had caught sight of two big barrels filled with clothing for the troops. The barrels had been dropped from a wrecked motor lorry of a supply train. Like a flash an inspiration came to him. He consulted a moment with Bart, whose eye lighted up as he nodded assent. Then he stepped up to his captain and saluted. "What is it, Sheldon?"
Didn't it embarrass you when your voice broke like that?" went on the questioner, breathlessly. Lorry was now leaning back in the seat, quite a little mystified. "I don't believe mine ever broke like that," he said, speculatively. There was no response, and he sat silent for some time, regretting more and more that it was so dark.
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