"I'm frightfully sick that I wasn't on board instead of being on leave," thought the flight-sub. "Just my rotten luck. Wonder what has happened to Fuller and Kirkwood? Missing. Perhaps; but I'll stake my all on Fuller. He'll turn up trumps right enough." Nevertheless Barcroft spent a miserable afternoon. He felt too unsettled to carry out his original programme of calling at Mill View. The desertion of Butterfly he had practically forgotten. All he wanted to do was to go home and await news of his missing chums. * * * * Meanwhile Peter Barcroft, having completed his precious proofs to the accompaniment of a choice selection of literary profanity, set out to post the result of his labours. It was a good mile to the nearest pillar-box, which was on the summit of the hill overlooking Blackberry Cross, and was cleared at the early hour of four p.m. "Nice walk on a fine day," commented Peter, "but there'll be trouble when it blows, rains or snows. A bit of a change from having a pillar-box outside one's door, and where one can post at ten in the evening with the absolute certainty of the letter being delivered in Town the next morning. Wonder if I'll meet Billy on his way back?" He whistled for the two dogs and, checking their impetuosity, walked briskly down the lane. "Pity the car's crocked," he soliloquised. "Might have taken Billy round and shown him the country. By Jove, this air is fine! Makes a fellow glad to be alive. Hope Billy will have fine weather while he's here." His plans for the entertainment of his sailor son were interrupted by his being nearly run down by a cyclist postman, who, turning sharply from the high road into the lane leading to Ladybird Fold, managed to miss the occupier of that delectable spot by a few inches. "Sorry, sir." "Don't mention it," replied Peter affably. "A miss is as good as a mile. Anything for me? You're early this afternoon." "A telegram for you, sir; postmaster he sent me with it, seeing it's on my way home and there'll not be a lad at t'office." Peter took the orange-coloured envelope and opened it. Within was a form bearing the words: "Report for duty at Rosyth immediately." "No answer," said Peter shortly; then "You might put this in the post for me," handing the man the stamped envelope. Barcroft Senior retraced his steps. Dashed to the ground were the castles in the air he was building concerning Billy's programme. "Jolly rough luck," he decided, that a youngster's leave should be curtailed in that off-hand manner. Then he realised that there was a higher claim. His son was wanted--urgently. Personal considerations were nothing compared with the exigencies of the Senior Service in wartime.