“No, I’m tired now. I say,” added Fitz, after a pause, as he lay watching the draughtsmen being dropped slowly back into the bag, “don’t take any notice of what I said. I don’t want you to think me cocky and bragging. My head worries me, and it makes me feel hot and out of temper, and ready to find fault with everything. We’ll have another game some day if I’m kept here a prisoner. Perhaps I shall be able to play better then.”
“To be sure you will. But it doesn’t matter which side wins. It is only meant for a game.”
Chapter Eight.
A basin of soup.
Fitz had just finished his semi-apology when the fastening of the door clicked softly; it was pushed, and a peculiar-looking, shaggy head was thrust in. The hair was of a rusty sandy colour, a shade lighter than the deeply-tanned face, while a perpetual grin parted the owner’s lips as if he were proud to show his teeth, though, truth to tell, there was nothing to be proud of unless it was their bad shape and size. But the most striking features were the eyes, which somehow or another possessed a fiery reddish tinge, and added a certain fierceness to a physiognomy which would otherwise have been very weak.
Fitz started at the apparition.
“The impertinence!” he muttered. “Here, I say,” he shouted now, “who are you?”
“Who am I, laddie?” came in a harsh voice. “Ye ken I’m the cook.”