But in the outer office the orderly smiled doubtfully.

A driver?  To be sure; but such as he could furnish would not be of the slightest use to them.  All the good chauffeurs had been impressed and the general was not disposed to let them have one.

“He mentioned a Belgian,” suggested Uncle John.

“I know; but the Belgians in Calais are all fugitives, terror-stricken and unmanned.”  He grew thoughtful a moment and then continued:  “My advice would be to take your ship to Dunkirk.  It is only a little way, through a good channel, and you will be as safe there as at Calais.  For, if Dunkirk falls, Calais will fall with it.  From there, moreover, the roads are better to Arras and Peronne, and it is there you stand the best chance of getting a clever Belgian chauffeur.  If you wish—­” he hesitated, looking at them keenly.

“Well, sir?”

“If you are really anxious to get to the firing line and do the most good, Dunkirk is your logical station.  If you are merely seeking the notoriety of being charitably inclined, remain here.”

They left the young man, reflecting upon his advice and gravely considering its value.  They next visited one of the hospitals, where an overworked but friendly English surgeon volunteered a similar suggestion.  Dunkirk, he declared, would give them better opportunities than Calais.

The remainder of the day they spent in getting whatever news had filtered into the city and vainly seeking a competent man for chauffeur.  On the morning of October eleventh they left Calais and proceeded slowly along the buoyed channel that is the only means of approaching the port of Dunkirk by water.  The coast line is too shallow to allow ships to enter from the open sea.

On their arrival at the Flemish city—­twelve miles nearer the front than Calais—­they found an entirely different atmosphere.  No excitement, no terror was visible anywhere.  The people quietly pursued their accustomed avocations and the city was as orderly as in normal times.

The town was full of Belgians, however, both soldiers and civilians, while French and British troops were arriving hourly in regiments and battalions.  General French, the English commander in chief, had located his headquarters at a prominent hotel, and a brisk and businesslike air pervaded the place, with an entire lack of confusion.  Most of the Belgians were reservists who were waiting to secure uniforms and arms.  They crowded all the hotels, cafes and inns and seemed as merry and light-hearted as if no news of their king’s defeat and precipitate retreat had arrived.  Not until questioned would they discuss the war at all, yet every man was on the qui vive, expecting hourly to hear the roar of guns announcing the arrival of the fragment of the Belgian army that had escaped from Antwerp.

To-day the girls came ashore with the men of their party, all three wearing their Red Cross uniforms and caps, and it was almost pathetic to note the deference with which all those warriors—­both bronzed and fair—­removed their caps until the “angels of mercy” had passed them by.