Paul obeyed sleepily. Herr Pauer drew a penknife from his pocket and impaled the last inch of his cigar with it. He sat puffing there, and sat looking at his guest, or prisoner, and Paul looked at him drowsily in turn until Herr Pauer’s head seemed to swell and fill the canvas box. The noise of the band came in gushes, as if his ears were now under water and now clear of it The head went on swelling, and the sound of the music grew fainter. He was deliciously warm, and he had a feeling of being lifted and gently balanced to and fro as if he were in a hammock. After this he forgot everything until he felt Pauer’s hand on his shoulder, and started broad awake, with a clear sense that the spaces close at hand which had been so crammed with life a little while ago were all dark and deserted.
‘Time to go,’ said Pauer. ‘No, never mind the coat.’
Paul was struggling out of it. ‘I have another.’ He held his arms abroad to show that he was already provided, and the lad rose to his feet ‘Take this,’ said Pauer, fixing a rough unlined cap upon his head with both hands. ‘It will look less odd, and it’s better than nothing.’ He turned out the lamp to its last spark, and then with a puff of breath extinguished it altogether. ‘Tu m’attends, George?’ he called to somebody outside.
‘Che d’addends,’ said a voice at a little distance; and Paul, guided by Pauer’s hand upon his arm, groped his way towards it.
In the pale light outside the tent, the fog having cleared away, and a thin strip of moon hanging over the river, Paul dimly discerned a stout, broad-shouldered man of brief stature, who was half buried in a big fur overcoat An eyeglass shone faintly beneath the brim of his silk hat The three made their way across the slippery field, and on to the firm high-road. They reached the inn to which Paul had run as a messenger a little while ago, and Pauer led the way to an upstair room where supper was laid, and a bright fire was blazing on the hearth. The guest needed no second invitation to be seated, but he made a poor meal, in spite of the best intentions. His companions disregarded him for a time, and spoke in a language he did not understand. He tried to disconnect and isolate their words, but they all seemed to run together. He fancied that Pauer talked in one tongue and his friend in another, but he knew later that this was a mere question of accent. When Paul was growing sleepy again the man with the eyeglass spoke in English.
‘Ask him, then.’
‘My friend here,’ said Pauer, ‘Mr. George Darco, wants a smart, handy youngster. If you can give us a satisfactory account of how you came into your present condition, he will find you employment.’
Paul looked from one to the other, and both men regarded him seriously. He blushed furiously, and his eyes fell.
‘I suppose,’ said Pauer, ‘that you don’t remember much of what you said to me on Saturday night?
‘I don’t know,’ Paul answered.