"Long Nose," he said, "I’d know that bill in a thousand. What are you doing here?"
"I’m commanding the tenth division, sir," answered Godwin, for he it was, a flush rising to his face at the instant recognition.
"Nose seems longer—regular curlew’s beak," said Graeme, and passed with a muttered "One good un, anyway." The inspection ended, he returned to the desk, and, perching himself on it, sat there for a moment regarding them.
"Blokes," he said at last, "I don’t want ye here, nasty wet day to be out, but you can thank Thomas for that, not me. Still, now that you’ve come, I’m going to ask you all a conundrum. You know the hat we’re in. Uriel’s lot of thirty thousand, full of buck after last night’s pantomime, in our front fifteen miles away; behind them one hundred thousand under Gabriel—a scorcher, Gabriel, I tell you—and from the west, coming up fast, another eighty thousand under Michael, almost as hot as Gabriel. By to-morrow night we’ll have at least two hundred thousand of the best against our scratch lot of a hundred and fifty thousand, that is, if they don’t off it before then, which, from what I saw as I came along, seems more than likely. There you have it in the neck, and I hope you like it. Now each of you in turn answer this question—what are we to do? I’ll begin with old Archibald there."
"Retreat, sir, to the coast, as quick as we can," was the ready answer.
"Have another go at ’em, sir. I can beat last night’s lot off my own bat. My men ain’t Hearts of Oak, sir."
"Fellowes, sir, Guards division," answered the speaker, a huge red-haired man with choleric, blue eyes.
"Stay where we are, sir, and fight them as they come. We’ll be wiped out, but that don’t matter much; it’s better than slinking home, anyway."
This from a skeleton of a man, with haggard face, large dark eyes, and hair patched with grey.
"Roy," repeated Graeme, passing on, "Roy. And you, Boko?"
"Retire, sir, but fight them all the way," said Godwin. "Retreat to Corunna, sir."
"Certainly retire, sir, it’s the only possible course. The plans are already drawn up, and here ready for your approval."
Moleyns’ confidence returning at the request, he handed a document to Graeme, who thereupon rolled it up into a ball and threw it at the other’s head. The Chief of the Staff, however, ducking in time, the missile flew over his head, hitting Sir Archibald Townsend in the stomach.