"Lots. They come and go through the lines, I believe, as they please."
"I wish I could find a few fellows of this sort."
"Perhaps I can put you in the way; only I doubt whether you can trust to a single word that they will tell you."
"But where shall we come upon them?"
"The best plan will be to consult Valetta Joe, the Maltese baker at the end of the lines. I have always suspected him of being a Russian spy; but I dare say we could buy him over if you want him. If he tries to play us false we will hang him the same day."
Valetta Joe was in his bread-store—a small shed communicating with the dark, dirty, semi-subterranean cellar behind, in which the dough was kneaded and baked. The shed was encumbered with barrels of inferior flour, and all around upon shelves lay the small short rolls, dark-looking and sour-tasting, which were sold in the camp for a shilling a piece.
"Well, Joe, what's the news from Sebastopol to-day?" asked Shervinton.
"Why you ask me, sare? I a poor Maltee baker—sell bread, make money. Have nothing to do with fight."
"You rascal! You know you're in league with the Russians. I have had my eye on you this long time. Some of these days we'll be down upon you like a cart-load of bricks."
"You a very hard man, Major Shervinton, sare—very unkind to poor Joe. I offer you bread every day for nothing; you say No. Why not take Joe's bread?"