Joe sat up. He gave a long, sideways look at the corporal. Then he lifted his eyes and stared at a crack in the ceiling.
The corporal watched these movements shrewdly.
“And then what?” he asked, ironically.
Again Joe turned and stared him in the face. The corporal smiled very slightly, but kindly.
“There’ll be murder done one of these days,” said Joe, in a quiet, unimpassioned voice.
“So long as it’s by daylight—” replied Albert. Then he went over, sat down by Joe, put his hand on his shoulder affectionately, and continued, “What is it, boy? What’s gone wrong? You can trust me, can’t you?”
Joe turned and looked curiously at the face so near to his.
“It’s nothing, that’s all,” he said laconically.
Albert frowned.
“Then who’s going to be murdered?—and who’s going to do the murdering?—me or you—which is it, boy?” He smiled gently at the stupid youth, looking straight at him all the while, into his eyes. Gradually the stupid, hunted, glowering look died out of Joe’s eyes. He turned his head aside, gently, as one rousing from a spell.