Rupert saw the necessity for a prompt answer at once and replied "Private Jackson, Royal Flying Corps." "What’s your number?" "Number?" repeated Rupert in surprise. "Come on, now—don’t you let me ’ave none of your ... nonsense. Out with it!" Rupert went hot and cold all over. His number! So he was discovered, after all. He gave it in a low voice. "No. 381. I’ll go quietly with you, but I should like to see Lieutenant Crichton first." "I ain’t going to put you in the guard-room," the sergeant guffawed, "not unless you gives me any more of your blooming cheek. But you’re for the orderly-room to-morrow morning, 9.45 sharp, for not saluting the General Officer Commanding the Western District—and don’t you forget it, or you’ll find yourself in ’clink.’ Now, fly off, and don’t give us so much of your ... Flying Corps manners." Rupert reached the "Duke of Cornwall" safely without further adventure. But on his way there, when he found himself in the busy streets, a sudden panic seized him. He felt his body alternately grow hot and cold. He was overcome by an overwhelming desire to run—to run away from the people who thronged the pavements, to fight a passage through the traffic and escape—somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide himself and be alone. Alone in the darkness again! Ever since his escape from prison he had lived the life of an underground animal. Always in the darkness. And at night, when he had dared sometimes steal a breath of fresh air; the darkness still surrounded him and the silence and the mystery of the night. For the best part of a year he had been shut off from human intercourse and converse with his fellow men. Now he suddenly found himself rubbing shoulders with them. He was jostled to and fro; laughter echoed in his ears. The noise of the traffic threatened to deafen him. He had to keep a tight grip on himself, or he knew he would have bolted—like a thief. Then, gradually, as his self-confidence returned and he found he was not molested, fear left him and was replaced by a tremendous excitement. He began to feel like a child who has run away from home, or a schoolboy who has escaped the vigilance of his masters. The noise of the streets began to have a meaning for him: colour and movement. The motors and tram-cars and the splendid shops. And, overhead, the great blue sky. He was free, really a free man again. At liberty! He mouthed the word lovingly. And he stood still on the pavement and gaped at the men and women who passed to and fro. How easily they took their liberty; how unconscious they seemed of it. They had never known what it was to be imprisoned. They had never known what it was to live behind walls, to be shut up in a narrow cell in the everlasting twilight, without even a window through which one might gaze and be reminded that God’s in His heaven, all’s well with the world.