“Bones,” he said, “I’m hanged if I see what you are driving at yet. But it’s the ramp of the century. Is there any mortal thing I can do to help you?”
“There is, Doc.! You’ve been in the Commandant’s private house. Describe it to me, carefully.”
He did so. “Anything else?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Look here, Bones.” The little man had grown suddenly solemn. “I know the Commandant; I’ve treated him as a doctor, and I know him. He’s dangerous—a bad man. And as for the Cook, he’s a limb of Satan! He’ll poison or shoot you as soon as look at you. I don’t want to spoil a joke, but you’re running a risk—a hell of a risk. You’ve compromised them with their own War Office, and if they find out you are bluffing them about this treasure, don’t blame me if it’s good-bye.”
“That reminds me,” I said; “there is one other thing I want you to do for us. If we send out of prison to ask for medicine, don’t give it; insist on coming to see us.” He nodded. “And don’t you worry, Doc.! We’re coming through all right, and it’ll be a top-hole ramp, anyway.”
“How far is it going to lead you?” he asked.
“Sufficient unto the day!” I said. “We don’t know.”
Doc. burst out laughing and smacked me hard between the shoulders.
“Bones, ye vagabond,” he cried, “I believe you are an Irishman after all!”