“The fire! The shavings! Quick, you idiot!” I raved. (It was great fun being able to abuse our captors without fear of punishment.)
With trembling fingers the Pimple undid the bundle of shavings. I snatched it from him, deposited it directly over where the revolver lay, and put a match to it. Then standing over the blaze, with arms outstretched towards the heavens, I recited—
“Tra bo dŵr y môr yn hallt,
A thra bo ’ngwallt yn tyfu,
A thra bo calon dan fy mron
Mi fydda ’n fyddlon iti,”
etc., etc., and so on. Celtic scholars will recognize a popular Welsh love lyric. In Yozgad it passed muster, very well, as the Incantation of the Head-hunting Waas. The Pimple and the Cook listened open-mouthed. Even Mundey was impressed.
“Something is here,” I called. “I feel it. Get a pick!”
Moïse turned to the Cook in great excitement and translated. Opposite us, at the foot of the little garden, was a high wall. The Cook was over it in a flash, like a monkey gone mad, and a moment later we could see him racing up the road towards the Commandant’s office to get the necessary implements for digging.
I glanced round and saw Corbould-Warren’s grinning face watching from behind a neighbouring wall. Close to him was a little crowd of my fellow-prisoners, all more or less helpless with suppressed laughter. The impulse to laugh along with them was almost irresistible. To save myself from doing so I sat down heavily, in a semi-collapse, against Tony’s hen-house, and buried my face in my arms. Mundey ministered nobly to me until the Cook reappeared with the pick. I began to dig.