“It looks about as good a jungle as they make,” said Chips. “I should go down and practise finding my way across it, if I was thinking of going out to Australia.” Chips looked round as he spoke. But Jan confined his attention to the wood. “It’d take you all your time,” he answered. “It’s more like a bit of overgrown cocoanut matting than anything else.” Chips liked the simile, especially as a sign of liveliness in Jan; but it dodged the subject he was trying to introduce. The fact was that Jan’s future was just now a matter of anxiety to himself and his friends. There had long been some talk of his going to Australia, to an uncle who had settled out there, whereas he himself would have given anything to go for a soldier like his other uncle. This was an impracticable dream; but Dudley Relton, consulted on the alternative, had written back to say that in his opinion Australia was the very place for such as Jan. Heriot, on the other hand, had quite other ideas; and Jan was too divided in his own mind, and too sick of the whole question, to wish to discuss it for the hundredth time with such a talker as old Chips. “Just about room for the foxes,” he went on about the covert, “and that’s all.” “Is it, though!” cried Carpenter. “Well, I’m blowed,” muttered Jan. An arresting figure had emerged from one of the sides for which Yardley Wood was celebrated. At least Jan pointed out a white mark in the dense woodland wall, and Chips could believe it was a gate, as he screwed up his eyes to sharpen their vision of the man advancing into the lower meadow. All he could make out was a purple face, a staggering gait, and a pair of wildly waving arms. “What’s up, do you suppose?” asked Chips, excitedly. “I’m just waiting to see.” The unsteady figure was signalling and gesticulating with increasing vivacity. The dark edge of the wood threw out the faded brown of his corduroys, the incredible plum-colour of his complexion. Signals were never flown against better background. “Something must have happened!” exclaimed Chips. “Hadn’t we better go and see what it is?” “Not quite. Don’t you see _who_ it is?” Chips screwed his eyes into slits behind his glasses. “Is it old Mulberry?” “Did you ever see another face that colour?” “You’re right. But what does he want with us? Look at him beckoning! Can you hear what he’s shouting out?” A hoarse voice had reached them, roaring. “No, and I don’t want to; he’s as drunk as a fool, as usual.” “I’m not so sure, Jan. I believe something’s up.” “Well, we’ll soon see. I’m not sure but what you’re right after all.”