They spent half an hour in the “place,” where Lollie drank some exceedingly bad champagne, and spent every minute of the time in a joyful reunion with an old school chum he hadn’t seen for years. Then he searched Bullivant out and they departed for the hotel to pick up their kits and move to the station. At the hotel the barman told him in confidence that the midnight train was cancelled, and that he’d have to wait till next day. “He’s right, of course,” Lollie told Bullivant. “He always gets these things right. He has stacks more information about everything than all the Intelligence crowd together. If you want to know where your unit is in the line or when a train arrives or a boat leaves, come along and ask Henri, and be sure you’ll get it right—if he knows you well enough; but all the same we must go to the station and get it officially that our train’s a washout to-night.” They went there and got it officially, with the added information that they would go to-morrow night, same time, but to report to R.T.O. (Railway Transport Officer) at noon. There were no beds at the club (“Never are after about tea-time,” Lollie told Bullivant), and, to save tramping in a vain search around hotels, they returned to their barman-information-bureau, and learned from him that all the leading hotels were full up to the last limits of settees, made-up beds, and billiard rooms. Lollie’s knowledge saved them further wanderings by taking them direct to another “place,” where they obtained a not-too-clean bedroom. “Not as bad as plenty we’ve slept in up the line,” said Lollie philosophically; “only I’d advise you to sleep in your clothes; it leaves so much the less front open to attack.”