The doctor began pulling up the sleeves of his coat as though he were leading a forlorn hope.
“Right you are, Doc.” I put my fingers on the glass. “One more shot,” and as I said it the Devil of Mischief that is in every Celt whispered to me that the little man must not go empty away. We closed our eyes.
“For the last time,” said the Doc. “WHO—ARE—YOU?”
The glass began to move across the board.
“S-,” Matthews read aloud, “A-L-L-Y—SALLY!”
“Sally,” Price repeated, in a whisper.
“Sally,” I echoed again.
The Doc. wriggled forward in his chair, tugging up his coat-sleeves. “Keep at it,” he whispered excitedly. “Keep at it, we’ve got one at last.” And then in a loud voice that had a slight quaver in it—
“GOOD EVENING, SALLY! HAVE YE ANYTHIN’ TO TELL US?”
Sally had quite a lot to tell us. She made love to Alec Matthews (much to his delight) in the most barefaced way, and then coolly informed him that she preferred sailor-boys. Price beamed, and replied in fitting terms. She talked seriously to the Doc. (who had murmured—out of jealousy, I expect—that Sally seemed a brazen hussy), and warned us to be careful what we said in the presence of a lady. (That “presence of a lady” startled us—most of us hadn’t seen a lady for nearly three years.) She accused me of being unbecomingly dressed. (Pyjamas and a blanket—quite respectable for a prisoner.) Then she complained of “feeling tired,” made one or two most unladylike remarks when we pressed her to tell us more, and “went away.”