“And now,” said the Colonel, “if you are through with your breakfast I will send first of all for the private who went to the upper camp with Arturus the Greek, and then, in turn, you can meet the guide.”
He was as good as his word. In a very few minutes a soldier came up and saluted, a fellow who had discarded the leggings with which he had come from the other side of the world, and turned up his trouser-legs so as to keep cool, for the weather was already feeling rather uncomfortably warm to one accustomed to a cooler climate.
Later on these men from the other side of the world stripped half their garments off, and fought in that “free-and-easy” fashion, as they termed it. Some of them must have had the blood of Scottish Highlanders in their veins.
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“Lancing, these two young chaps are American boys who are looking for an aviator named Frank Turner,” the officer explained to him as he stood there at attention, as rigid as a stick. “They have some reason to believe he is ashore here. You told me when you made your report that you had spoken with an air pilot whose aeroplane was at the camp of the New Zealanders. Now show him the picture, Amos.”
Amos only too gladly complied. He fairly held his breath while the stiffened figure of the private put out a hand and took the photograph. He was looking intently at it now.
“That picture was taken, they tell me, several years back, Lancing,” the Colonel went on to explain, “so naturally it might not be exactly like the original as he is today. Now, since you have examined it, can you say whether the man you met and talked with resembled this picture to any degree?”
“He does, sir, and he does not,” answered the man.
“Still you can see no reason why they should
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 not be the same, can you? Is the color of the hair similar, and the general features much alike?” continued the obliging officer.
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