“He can’t understand me, can he?” Phil returned.
“Oh, yes, he can understand a good deal, although he pretends to be contemptuously ignorant of the hated English tongue. Good-by, now, I must go, but I’ll keep my eyes open and will do everything that I can for you.”
The spy glided swiftly out of the room, leaving the tray of food setting on the floor.
Encouraged by the fact of the nearness of a friend and the assurance that there was reasonable hope of rescue, Phil cudgeled his brain hard for an inspiration to think up a plausible story to tell his tormentor. The strain of pain and necessity helped him wonderfully, and in a short time he was yelling at the top of his voice to the orderly. The latter strolled in in leisurely manner after the boy yelled two or three minutes.
“Tell ‘the count’ I’m ready to tell the truth,” Phil announced in pleading tones, which were genuine enough, in spite of the fiction plot behind them.
Without a word the orderly went out of the room and soon returned accompanied by “Count Topoff.”
“Ready to tell me the truth?” snapped the latter, addressing the suffering prisoner.
“Yes, yes,” cried Phil, designedly making no effort to conceal his distress.
Topoff gave the orderly directions in German, and the latter proceeded to cut the strings that bound the boy’s thumbs and great toes together.