"Gollys!" said Bert. "What next?"

He stared about him at the room.

"Butteridge! Shall I try to keep it up, or shan't I?"

The room he was in puzzled him. "'Tisn't a prison and 'tisn't a
norfis?" Then the old trouble came uppermost. "I wish to 'eaven
I 'adn't these silly sandals on," he cried querulously to the
universe. "They give the whole blessed show away."

3

His door was flung open, and a compact young man in uniform
appeared, carrying Mr. Butteridge's portfolio, rucksac, and
shaving-glass.

"I say!" he said in faultless English as he entered. He had a
beaming face, and a sort of pinkish blond hair. "Fancy you being
Butteridge." He slapped Bert's meagre luggage down.

"We'd have started," he said, "in another half-hour! You didn't
give yourself much time!"

He surveyed Bert curiously. His gaze rested for a fraction of a
moment on the sandals. "You ought to have come on your
flying-machine, Mr. Butteridge."

He didn't wait for an answer. "The Prince says I've got to
look after you. Naturally he can't see you now, but he thinks