" The Canadian officers
passed gingerly on feeling their way down the inky street. A Zeppelin
had been over the night before and the lighting regulations were being
strictly enforced.
Suddenly the Captain stopped, passed his hand along a brick wall, gave
a pull at a wire, and a gong on the inside rang like a fire alarm.
"How in the dickens you can see in this darkness beats me," said the
Colonel. "You must have eyes like a French cat."
The door was opened by Bittleson, and the three officers entered and
walked along the dimly lit, tiled hall into a room at the far end.
"Home, Sweet Home," said the Colonel looking around the room. "It is
the nearest thing we can get to it anyway, worse luck." They all threw
their British warms and caps onto a large chair, flung their sam-brown
belts on top of them and picking out their own respective easy chairs
drew up before the fire, which was burning brightly in the French
grate stove in the corner of the mess room, formerly the dining room
of Madame Deswaerts. The whole side of the room facing the rose garden
and pigeon cots was glassed in and the two huge French windows were,
no doubt, a pleasant feature in the summer time; at present they
admitted a great deal of the cold, damp air from outside.
"Rawson," called the Colonel. Rawson a little black-haired Jew, the
Doctor's batman and temporary mess cook, entered.
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