Jogman got upon his knees and thrust the brush aside; he pried open the window and peered within. He saw a small room, neatly furnished with bed and rug and chair. A dresser stood against the wall. An electric light hung from the ceiling, but no wires were visible without. The clothes still lying upon the bed, the overturned chair and the remains of a lunch upon the table all spoke of a hasty departure. Perhaps it had been the secret home of a German spy. If so, he had decamped some time since.
Dismissing idle speculation, but making a mental note for future reference, Jogman rose and proceeded on his quest. He soon found himself in the streets of that lively little town which has been aptly called the "Monte Carlo" of northern France. Its big gambling "Casinos" had long since been turned to better use, and the beds of wounded soldiers now replaced the gambling tables and petits chevaux.
Hurrying through the "Swiss Village" and scarcely taking time to acknowledge the greetings of a Belgian lassie who waved her hand from a shop window as he passed, he entered the Café Central and seating himself at one of the little round tables forthwith called for a drink. The barmaid approached him.
"M'sieur veut?" she asked.
"Gimme a glass of Scotch an' soda," Jogman demanded.
"Ees eet wiskie m'sieur desires?" she queried in broken English.
"Yes—whiskey—big glass," said Jogman picturing the size with his two hands.
"Oui, m'sieur."
She filled his glass. He drank it thirstily and called for another. Several more followed their predecessors, and being now comfortably alight he proceeded up street, seeking new worlds to conquer.
The butcher-shop door stood invitingly open. Jogman entered unsteadily; what maudlin idea was fermenting in his brain none but himself might say. The fat butcher, meataxe in hand and pencil behind his ear, approached to take his order.