"A regular spring cleaning," he said to the trooper, with a grin that set the Gallic warrior smiling widely. "It's clear that the pastor has gone away while workmen have possession of the house. But—my uncle!—that's a larder, and here's the kitchen."
No one but those who have experienced it know the delight a soldier on service finds in the discovery of dainties. Rations are apt to pall after a while, and men long for the trifles which are commonly to be found upon the tables of those who lead a more peaceful existence. And here was a find. The careful housewife of the pastor, his housekeeper, or whoever saw to his material wants, had set by a store at the sight of which Tom's mouth watered.
"My uncle!" he exclaimed again, running his eye along a row of preserves neatly bottled, and surveying a dozen hams hanging to hooks in a ceiling beam. "But—" and at the word his jovial face fell and lengthened till it was like a fiddle. "But they ain't ours to take—eh?"
The trooper grinned widely. He was an old soldier, and though he may have had his scruples, a limited diet for the past few weeks, and a gnawing at his stomach now, swept all scruples aside.
"Monsieur then prefers to starve with plenty beneath his nose?" he asked politely, drawing himself up and shouldering his carbine, so that the muzzle struck the low ceiling violently. "Parbleu! There is reason why we should eat these good things, monsieur. But for the pigs who hem us in, and for their hatred of us, we could step outside and buy what is required. That is so, monsieur?"
"Exactly," came the crisp answer, while Tom still surveyed the good things hungrily.
"But we cannot set out for the market. These pigs send bullets at us instead of food. That being so, vraiment, monsieur, surely here comes in a law of nature. To live one must eat. Here, then, is the wherewithal to obey that law."
The rascal grounded his weapon with a resonant bang, and put his nose within an inch of one of the hams.
"Ready cooked—meant to be eaten," he gasped. "Monsieur will——"