“And of course, Herr Brandelaar, you had no suspicion of the important stuffing in your white bread? Now, I am not called upon to investigate the matter further. It will be for the court-martial to throw light on the affair.”
The grocer turned as pale as death, and lifted up his hands imploringly.
“Mercy, Herr major, mercy! As true as I live, I am innocent.”
Heideck pretended not to have heard his assertion.
“Further, I must tell you, gentlemen, that you are confoundedly bad men of business, to risk your lives for a miserable thirty pounds. That was an inexcusable folly. If ever you wanted to make money in that way, really you would have done better to work for us. We would pay a man five times as much without haggling, if he would furnish us with really trustworthy information of this kind about the English fleet and army.”
At these words, spoken almost in a jovial tone, a gleam of hope showed itself in the countenance of the two men. The grocer had opened his mouth to reply, when Heideck signed to him to be silent.
“Be so good as to go on deck for a while, Penurot,” said he. “I will call you when I want to continue the conversation. You shall give me your company first, Brandelaar. I should like a few words with you in private.”
The man with the fashionably pointed beard obeyed. Then Heideck turned to the Dutchman—
“This Penurot is the guilty party, isn’t he? As a skipper you have probably never troubled yourself much about politics during your lifetime: you scarcely had a correct idea of the risk you were running. If the court-martial condemns you, you will only have your friend Penurot to thank for it.”
“What you say is quite true, sir,” replied Brandelaar with well-acted simplicity. “I have my cargo to sell for the firm of Van Spranekhuizen, and I don’t care a damn for war or spying. I beg the Herr major to put in a good word for me. I had no suspicion of what was inside the bread.”