"Where to?" said Peter.

"Well, if you ask me, padre," he replied, "I don't see what's against a
decent clean-up and breakfast at the club. It doesn't much matter when I
report, and the club's handy for your show. I know the A.C.G.'s office,
because it's in the same house as the Base Cashier, and the club's just
at the bottom of the street. But it's the deuce of a way from the
station. If we can get a taxi, I vote we take it."

"Right-o," agreed Peter. "You lead on."

They tumbled out on the platform, and produced the necessary papers at
the exit labelled "British Officers Only." A red-capped military
policeman wrote down particulars on a paper, and in a few minutes they
were out among the crowd of peasantry in the booking-hall. Jenks pushed
through, and had secured a cab by the time Peter arrived. "There isn't a
taxi to be got, padre," he said, "but this'll do."

They rolled off down an avenue of wintry trees, passed a wooden building
which Peter was informed was the English military church, and out on to
the stone-paved quay. To Peter the drive was an intense delight. A French
blue-coated regiment swung past them. "Going up the line," said Jenks. A
crowd of black troops marched by in the opposite direction. "Good Lord!"
said Jenks, "so the S.A. native labour has come." The river was full of
craft, but his mentor explained that the true docks stretched mile on
mile downstream. By a wide bridge lay a camouflaged steamer. "Hospital
ship," said Jenks. Up a narrow street could be seen the buttresses of the
cathedral; and if Peter craned his head to glance up, his companion was
more occupied in the great café at the corner a little farther on. But
it was, of course, deserted at that early hour. A flower-stall at the