Mrs. Henry looked up. "I think I hear that boy again selling evening
papers," she said. "I suppose they must come off the 9.5 train. But it's
a strange thing to happen on a Sunday--here."
The Reverend Henry was already at the window. He threw it up and leaned
out.
"One can't approve of it, but I suppose in war time--" Mrs. Henry was
beginning when her husband cut her short. "Hush--I'm trying to hear what
he is saying. I wish boys could be taught to speak distinctly." There
was a pause.
"I can't make him out." The Reverend Henry's head reappeared between the
curtains. "It's really most exasperating; I'd give a lot to know if the
Belgian army got out of Antwerp before it fell."
"Couldn't you shout down and ask him?"
"No, no. I cannot be discovered interrogating urchins about secular
affairs from a second storey window on Sunday evening. Still, I'd like
to know."
The Reverend Henry perambulated the room with knitted brow.
"I never bought a Sunday paper of any sort in my life. Never."
"I suppose one must have _some_ principles," said his wife.
"But it's enormously important, you know. They may easily have been
surrounded and captured." He returned to the window. "Hullo, he's gone
to the door. I say, Cook has bought one. This is exciting. I should
never have thought Cook would have done that."
"It raises rather a nice point," said Mrs. Henry.
The Reverend Henry returned resolutely to his book. The shouts of the
newsvendor died away.
"We must not forget," said the Reverend Henry irrelevantly, "that Cook
is a Dissenter." Then suddenly he broke out. "I wish I knew," he said.
"I am not paying the least attention to this book and I shan't sleep
well, and I shall get up about two hours before the morning paper
arrives, and be restive till I know whether the Belgians got out. But
what am I to do? I can't ask Cook."
"I might go down," his wife volunteered. "I needn't say anything about
it, you know. I could just stroll about the kitchen and change the
orders for breakfast. The paper is pretty sure to be lying about. There
may be headlines."
"No," said the Reverend Henry with determination, "I really cannot
consent to it."
"Well, I may as well go to bed. Don't sit up late."
The Reverend Henry did sit up rather late. He was wide awake and ill at
ease. At last he listened intently at the door and then took a candle
and stole down the passage.
The Reverend Henry had not been in his own kitchen for close upon ten
years, and he did not know the way about very well. He had adventures
and some moments of rigid suspense while the clatter of a kicked
coal-scuttle died away in the distance. But when at last he crept
noiselessly up-stairs he was assured of a good night's rest.
"What a mess your hands are in," said Mrs. Henry sleepily.
"Yes," said Henry. "That miserable woman had used it to lay the fire.
But it's all right. They did get out--most of them."
* * * * *
Illustration: _Alf_ (_reading French news_). "ALL THE CINEMAS IN CALAIS
ARE SHUT UP. MY WORD! THAT BRINGS THE HORRORS OF WAR PRETTY CLOSE TO
HOME!"
* * * * *
"British Troops Fighting (Official)."--_Western Mail._
So the Censor has let the secret out at last, and the rumours of the
last 70 days prove to be well founded.
* * * * *
"Five hundred German prisoners were landed in Dublin yesterday
afternoon, and conveyed under escort to Templemore, County
Tipperary."--_Newcastle Daily Journal._
It's a long, long way, but they've got there at last.
* * * * *