onsense!"

"The wheeze would simply be to...."

"It's impossible."

"Oh, very well," said Freddie, damped. "Just as you say, of course.
But there's nothing like a gang, old son, nothing like a gang!"

II

Derek Underhill threw down the stump of his cigar, and grunted
irritably. Inside Charing Cross Station business was proceeding as
usual. Porters wheeling baggage-trucks moved to and fro like
Juggernauts. Belated trains clanked in, glad to get home, while
others, less fortunate, crept reluctantly out through the blackness
and disappeared into an inferno of detonating fog-signals. For outside
the fog still held. The air was cold and raw and tasted coppery. In
the street traffic moved at a funeral pace, to the accompaniment of
hoarse cries and occasional crashes. Once the sun had worked its way
through the murk and had hung in the sky like a great red orange, but
now all was darkness and discomfort again, blended with that odd
suggestion of mystery and romance which is a London fog's only
redeeming quality.

The fog and the waiting had had their effect upon Derek. The resolute
front he had exhibited to Freddie at the breakfast-table had melted
since his arrival at the station, and he was feeling nervous at the
prospect of the meeting that lay before him. Calm as he had appeared
to the eye of Freddie and bravely as he had spoken, Derek, in the
recesses of his heart, was afraid of his mother. There are men--and
Derek Underhill was one of them--who never wholly emerge from the
nursery. They may put away childish things and rise in the world to
affluence and success, but the hand that rocked their cradle still
rules their lives.

Derek turned to begin one more walk along the platform, and stopped in
mid-stride, raging. Beaming over the collar of a plaid greatcoat, all
helpfulness and devotion, Freddie Rooke was advancing towards him, the
friend that sticketh closer than a brother. Like some loving dog, who,
ordered home sneaks softly on through alleys and by-ways, peeping
round corners and crouching behind lamp-posts, the faithful Freddie
had followed him after all. And with him, to add the last touch to
Derek's discomfiture, were those two inseparable allies of his, Ronny
Devereux and Algy Martyn.

"Well, old thing," said Freddie, patting Derek encouragingly on the
shoulder, "here we are after all! I know you told me not to roll round
and so forth, but I knew you didn't mean it. I thought it over after
you had