"What’s the Old Man up to, I wonder?" he enquired. "Quite a labour colony. Look--air flasks too, by Jove!"
A pile of rusty wrought-iron cylinders stacked on the grass by the side of the path recalled visions of by-gone days.
"Something doing, that’s evident," agreed Bramsdean. "What’s the stunt, and why are we hiked into it?"
"Wait and see, old bird," replied Kenyon.
The chauffeur regained the car and slipped in the clutch. For full another quarter of a mile the car climbed steadily, negotiating awkward corners in the rutty, winding path, until, emerging from the wood, it pulled up outside the house of Fosterdyke.
No powdered footman awaited them. On the steps, clad in worn but serviceable tweeds, stood Sir Reginald Fosterdyke himself.
The baronet--generally referred to by his former officers as the Old Man--was of medium height, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested. He was about thirty-five years of age, with well-bronzed features, clean shaven, and possessed a thick crop of closely-cut dark brown hair tinged with iron grey.
He held out his left hand as Kenyon and Bramsdean ascended the stone steps--his right hand was enveloped in surgical bandages--and greeted his guests warmly.
"Glad to see you, boys!" he exclaimed. "It’s good of you to come. Have a glass of sherry?"
He led the way to the study, rang a bell, and gave instructions to a man-servant whom Kenyon recognised as the O.C.’s batman somewhere in France.
Sir Reginald sat on the edge of the table and whimsically regarded his former subordinates. At that moment, rising above the staccato rattle of the pneumatic hammer, came the unmistakable whirr of an aerial propeller. To Kenyon and Bramsdean it was much the same as a trumpet-call to an old war-horse.
"Sounds like old times, eh?" remarked Sir Reginald.
"Rather, sir," agreed Kenyon heartily, and, at a loss to express himself further, he relapsed into silence.
"Experimental work, sir?" enquired Bramsdean.
"Yes," he replied in level tones. "Experimental work, that’s it. That’s why I sent for you. I’m contemplating a flight round the world. Keen on having a shot at it?"
The two chums were not in the least taken aback with the announcement. They knew the way of their late O.C. On active service Fosterdyke was in the habit of issuing orders for certain operations to be performed without apparently considering the magnitude or the danger of the undertaking. The officer or man to whom the order was given almost invariably executed it promptly. In the few cases where the individual instructed to carry out a "stunt" failed to rise to the occasion, that was an end of him as far as his service under Wing Commander Sir Reginald Fosterdyke went. Fosterdyke had no use for faint-hearted subordinates.