“How d’you know what the Spook will do?” asked Freeland. There was a confoundedly knowing twinkle in his eye.
I was cornered. “I’m only guessing,” I said lamely. “I—I——”
“Right-o!” said Freeland, laughing. “I’ll stuff him up for you. You leave it to me.”
In that moment, I am convinced, Freeland more than suspected it was all a fraud. Like the good sport he was, he covered my confusion from the others, and never, either then or afterwards, pressed his advantage. We talked hurriedly over what he was to say to the Interpreter, and I left the room.
THE LANE WHERE THE PRISONERS EXERCISED
An hour and a half later, from my hiding-place in Stace’s room, I watched the Interpreter depart. Then I returned to our Mess. There was a litter of tea-cups all over the place. I poured myself out a cup of cold tea.
“Oh, you’ve had the cake,” I said, pointing to some delectable-looking crumbs on a plate; “where’s my bit?”
“Yok,”[[6]] said Freeland, with ill-concealed glee.
“Come on, you blighters, fork it out,” I pleaded. It was a recognized rule of the mess that all parcel dainties (Heaven knows they were few enough!) were scrupulously shared. An absentee’s portion was always put aside for him.