The Dispatch Riders Part 27

The crowded streets were strangely quiet. Beyond the occasional crying of a child or the barking of some of the numerous dogs, there was little sound from the listless throng.

When Kenneth was last in Brussels the people were vociferously discussing the situation, especially the momentarily expected arrival of the British Expeditionary Force. Now hope seemed dead. No longer was there any talk of foreign aid. People began to accept as a matter of course the fact that their city would be handed over to the Germans without opposition. Already the seat of government had been removed to Antwerp. The Civil Guards, who had at first commenced to erect barricades on the roads approaching from the eastward, had been ordered to remove the obstructions and to disarm themselves. In order to spare their city from sack and destruction, the Bruxellois had decided to admit the Huns without opposition.

Before Kenneth had gone very far his progress was barred by a vast concourse of people. Civil Guards were forcing a way through the throng, to allow the pa.s.sing of a Red Cross convoy. There were thirty wagons, all filled to their utmost capacity, for the most part with mangled specimens of humanity. For every soldier wounded by a rifle-bullet there were, roughly, twenty-nine maimed by sh.e.l.l-fire.

Another battle had just taken place, with the now usual result. The Belgians, utterly outnumbered and outranged, had been compelled to fall back in spite of a determined and vigorous defence. Of their army a portion had retreated towards Ostend, while the greater part had retired to the shelter of the vast and supposedly impregnable fortress of Antwerp.

As soon as the convoy had pa.s.sed, Kenneth hurried to the military depot. He found the place locked up. Not a soldier was to be seen.

Enquiries brought the information that, regarding the fall of Brussels as inevitable, the authorities had transferred practically the whole of the military stores to Antwerp and Bruges.

"You want a uniform?" repeated the old citizen to whom Kenneth had announced his requirements. "Ma foi! Your only chance, unless you get a discarded uniform from the hospital (and there, alas! there are many), is to follow the army to Antwerp. But you are not a Belgian?"

"No, English," replied Kenneth. "And I must remain in Brussels for a few days."

"Then, mon garcon, put the idea of a uniform out of your head whilst you are here. Otherwise, when the Bosches arrive---- Ah, mon Dieu, they are barbarians!"

"Perhaps the old chap is right," thought Kenneth as he resumed his way.

"I cannot desert Rollo, and if I were to be found in Belgian uniform it would mean at least a trip across the Rhine and confinement in a barbed-wire compound till the end of the war. Now for the Credit Belgique."

Upon arriving at the bank the lad had another setback. The premises were closed; all the windows were heavily shuttered, whilst on the door was a notice, printed in French and Flemish, to the effect that the whole of the bullion and specie had been taken over by the Government, and that the bonds had been sent to London for security until Belgium was free from the invading German armies.

"Bang goes my fifty pounds!" thought Kenneth. "We'll have to exist on our corporal's pay--one franc fifty centimes a week, if we can get it."

From the bank Kenneth made his way to the Rue de la Tribune. Here most of the shops were shut and every other private house deserted. At the house owned by the Resimont family there was no sign of occupation.

One of the windows on the ground floor had been broken. Through the empty window-frame a curtain fluttered idly in the breeze. Already it was frayed by the action of the wind. Obviously the damage had been going on for some considerable time, without any attempt to prevent it.

Hoping against hope, Kenneth hammered at the knocker, but the door remained unanswered.

From the doorway of a tobacconist's shop opposite, the portly, well-groomed proprietor appeared. Raising a jewel-bedecked hand, he beckoned to the shabby youth standing on the Resimonts' doorstep.

"Monsieur requires----?" he asked, raising his eyebrows to complete his question.

"I wish to see Madame Resimont, monsieur."

"Madame set out soon after the war broke out. Whither I know not. But Monsieur is not Belgian?"

"No, English," replied Kenneth promptly, at the same time wondering why two people had asked that question that morning. It was a shock to his self-confidence, for he was beginning to pride himself upon his perfect French accent.

"You live in the city?"

"For a few days, monsieur."

"Good! Perchance I may hear news of madame. If you will let me have your address, I will in that case let you know." Kenneth furnished the desired information, and, having thanked the tobacconist, began to retrace his steps. As he did so he glanced at the name over the shop.

In bra.s.s letters were the words "Au bon fumeur--Jules de la Paix ".

The worthy Jules did not wait until Kenneth was out of sight. Tripping back into the shop, he grabbed an envelope from the counter and wrote the name and address which he had obtained.

"English. Spy undoubtedly," he muttered gleefully. "In another two days that will be worth much to me."

For Jules de la Paix was Belgian only as far as his a.s.sumed name went.

In reality he was a Prussian, a native of Charlottenburg, and a spy in the pay of the German Government. For over twenty years he had been in business as a tobacconist in the Rue de la Tribune, fostered by Teutonic subsidies, waiting for the expected day when the Kaiser's grey-clad legions were to strike at France through the supposedly inviolate territory of Belgium.

"I'll call at the post office," decided Kenneth. "I don't suppose it will be of any use, but on the off-chance there may be letters waiting for Rollo or me. There's no harm in trying."

In blissful ignorance of the danger that overshadowed him, Kenneth made his way through the crowd invading the post office. It was nearly forty minutes before his turn came. In reply to his request, a hopelessly overworked clerk went to a pigeonhole and removed a pile of envelopes.

"Nothing, Monsieur Everest," he announced, after a perfunctory glance at the various addresses. "Nor is there anything for Monsieur Barrington."

"Hullo, Everest, old boy! What on earth are you doing here?" exclaimed a voice in Kenneth's ear.

Turning, the lad found himself confronted by a tall, erect Englishman, whose features were partly concealed by the turned-down brim of a soft felt hat.

"I'm afraid I don't---- Why, it's Dacres!"

"Right, old boy! But you haven't answered my question. What are you doing in Brussels at this lively moment?"

d.i.c.k Dacres was an old St. Cyprian's boy. He was Kenneth's senior by several years, having left the Upper Sixth while young Everest was still in the Third. Kenneth ought to have recognized him sooner, for he had been Dacres's f.a.g for one term.

"Let's get out of this crush," continued Dacres, grasping his old schoolfellow by the arm. Once clear of the crowd he noticed for the first time the lad's shabby clothes, but with inborn courtesy he refrained from pa.s.sing any remark that might cause any confusion on the part of young Everest. "I'm out here on service; can't give you any particulars. What are you doing here?"

"I'm with Barrington--you remember him? We're corporals of the 9th Regiment of the Line--motor-cyclist section."

"Indeed! Where is Barrington?"

"In bed with a sprained ankle. Would you like to see him? It isn't very far."

Dacres glanced at his watch.

"I should, only I can't stop very long. I have an appointment with the----" He broke off suddenly.

"You're not in uniform, I see."

"No; we had to discard ours. I have been trying to get a fresh equipment, but it seems hopeless in this place."

"Fire away and let's have your yarn," said Dacres encouragingly, as they walked side by side along one of the fairly-unfrequented streets running parallel with the Rue de la Tribune.

Before they reached the modest lodging Dacres had skilfully extracted the main thread of his late college-chums' adventures.

"Then you're temporarily on the rocks," he observed.

"I didn't say so," expostulated Kenneth.

"My dear man, I know you didn't, but I can put two and two together.

It's a delicate subject, Everest, and I'm afraid I'm rather a blunt sort of chap, so excuse me. You're on your beam-ends?"

"Unfortunately, yes," admitted Kenneth. "The pater sent a draft to the Credit Belgique, but before I could draw on it the bank's been transferred. But it will be all right soon, I expect."

"Very well then, until things get a bit straight, let me give you a leg-up. Don't be uppish, old man. Remember we're Britons in a strange land. Luckily I'm fairly flush."