I
The door was shut, and all once again darkness in the cottage of the kitchen.
Something slithering along the floor caught Kit's ear.
Then he saw that Blob had by the collar the Grenadier he had killed, and with groanings and pantings and strange animal noises, was hauling his victim towards the dark mouth of the cellar.
"Leave him alone," called Kit sternly. "D'you call that a respectable way to treat the dead?" He laid a piece of sacking over the corpse, adding—"That'll do to cover him up till we can bury him properly."
"But Oi don't want un buried," whined Blob. "Oi be goin to keep un agin the fifth o Novambur—guy for Bloub!"
"You're going to do no such thing, you disgusting little beast. You'll get your tuppence, and you don't deserve that."
"Ah," said Blob cunningly, "this un'll be worth a little better'n tuppence surely. You knaw who he be, Maaster Sir?"
"Who then?"
Blob dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper.
"Squoire Nabowlin. Mus. Poiper tall me."
"Who?"
"Squoire Nabowlin," reiterated the boy. "Nabowlin Bounabaardie—the top Frenchie. See the legs on him! red and gold and buttons and all."