Archie spun round.  At his elbow stood a long, strongly-built young man in a grey suit.

“Well!” said the young man, nastily.  And he extended a large, freckled face toward Archie’s.  It seemed to the latter, as he backed against the wall, that the young man’s neck must be composed of india-rubber.  It appeared to be growing longer every moment.  His face, besides being freckled, was a dull brick-red in colour; his lips curled back in an unpleasant snarl, showing a gold tooth; and beside him, swaying in an ominous sort of way, hung two clenched red hands about the size of two young legs of mutton.  Archie eyed him with a growing apprehension.  There are moments in life when, passing idly on our way, we see a strange face, look into strange eyes, and with a sudden glow of human warmth say to ourselves, “We have found a friend!” This was not one of those moments.  The only person Archie had ever seen in his life who looked less friendly was the sergeant-major who had trained him in the early days of the war, before he had got his commission.

“I’ve had my eye on you!” said the young man.

He still had his eye on him.  It was a hot, gimlet-like eye, and it pierced the recesses of Archie’s soul.  He backed a little farther against the wall.

Archie was frankly disturbed.  He was no poltroon, and had proved the fact on many occasions during the days when the entire German army seemed to be picking on him personally, but he hated and shrank from anything in the nature of a bally public scene.

“What,” enquired the young man, still bearing the burden of the conversation, and shifting his left hand a little farther behind his back, “do you mean by following this young lady?”

Archie was glad he had asked him.  This was precisely what he wanted to explain.

“My dear old lad—­” he began.

In spite of the fact that he had asked a question and presumably desired a reply, the sound of Archie’s voice seemed to be more than the young man could endure.  It deprived him of the last vestige of restraint.  With a rasping snarl he brought his left fist round in a sweeping semicircle in the direction of Archie’s head.

Archie was no novice in the art of self-defence.  Since his early days at school he had learned much from leather-faced professors of the science.  He had been watching this unpleasant young man’s eyes with close attention, and the latter could not have indicated his scheme of action more clearly if he had sent him a formal note.  Archie saw the swing all the way.  He stepped nimbly aside, and the fist crashed against the wall.  The young man fell back with a yelp of anguish.

“Gus!” screamed the Girl Friend, bounding forward.

She flung her arms round the injured man, who was ruefully examining a hand which, always of an out-size, was now swelling to still further dimensions.

“Gus, darling!”