“Can’t I?” said Hill. He held the paper of questions under my nose. “Now you see it—houp là—now you don’t!” It had vanished. “Where is it?”
“Up your sleeve, or something. Go to bed,” said I.
“Wrong again.” Hill laughed, and rolled up his sleeves for inspection. “You’ll find out tomorrow where it is.”
The night was already far spent. We turned in.
“Which is the Spook going to make him—a quelqu’un or a quelquechose?” asked Hill, as he snuggled under the blankets.
“Take your choice,” said I. “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor——”
“Silk, satin, muslin, rags,” Hill murmured; “we’ll count the spuds we get for dinner tomorrow.”
“What for?” I asked sleepily.
“The end of the War. This year, next year, some time, never! Good-night, old chap.”
Some hours later I woke. Hill’s bed was empty. I wondered drowsily what he was up to, and went to sleep again.