“I want you to answer by occultism for me some questions. You will?”
Again I needed time, but for a different reason.
“We can’t talk here,” I said confidentially; “our mess has tea in about half an hour; come up and join us.”
“Right-o!” The familiar phrase somehow sounded obnoxious on his tongue. I walked back, up the steep path, thinking hard. Hitherto spooking had been merely a jest, with a psychological flavouring to lend it interest. But now a serious element was being introduced. If I could do to the Turks what I had succeeded in doing to my fellow-prisoners, if I could make them believers, there was no saying what influence I might not be able to exert over them. It might even open the door to freedom. Without any clear vision of the future, with nothing but the vaguest hope of ultimate success, I made up my mind to grip this man, and to wait for time to show how I might use him.
“Freak,” said I, entering our room, “wash your face, ’cause the ‘Pimple’ is coming to tea.”
Freeland stared at me open-mouthed. Uncle Gallup protested mildly because the announcement had caused him to blot his Great Literary Work. The Fat Boy woke from a deep sleep, and Pa dropped his pipe.
“Well, I’m ——,” said everybody at once.
“We’ll have that cake you’re saving up for your birthday, Freak,” I suggested.
“Hanged if we do,” said Freeland. “The little swab pinches half our parcels—why should we feed him? If he comes to tea, I’ll go and sit on the landing.”
“And I—and I—and I——” chorused the other three.