When they came to the round-house, Terry's courage failed him. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. ’ He had abandoned the “sir”, Gerald noted, realising that the footman’s respect for him had dropped sharply. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked.
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