remembering O.T.C. days at Oxford, firmly and, unblushingly saluted. The
Colonel made a little motion. "Good-bye," he said, and Peter found
himself outside the door.

"No. 5 Rest. Camp;" said Jenks a moment later: "you're in luck, padre.
It's a topping camp, and the skipper is an awfully good sort. Beast of a
long way out, though. You'll have to have a taxi now."

"The A.C.G. said a tram would do," said Peter.

"Then he talked through his blooming hat," replied the other. "He's
probably never been there in his little life. It's two miles beyond the
tram terminus if it's a yard. My place is just across the river, and
there's a ferry that pretty well drops you there. Tell you what I'll do.
I'll see you down and then skip over."

"What about your stuff, though?" queried Peter.

"Oh? bless you, I can get a lorry to collect that. That's one use in
being A.S.C., at any rate."

"It's jolly decent of you," said Peter.

"Not a bit, old dear," returned the other. "You're the right sort, padre,
and I'm at a loose end just now. Besides, I'd like to see old Harold.
He's one of the best. Come on."

They found a taxi this time, near the Gare du Vert, and ran quickly out,
first over cobbles, then down a wide avenue with a macadamised surface
which paralleled the river, downstream.