"Avez vous tabac?"
"Havey you to-ba-co?" said the big soldier instantly—interpreting.
"Not for a Johnny Crapaud like you, and put that in your pipe and shmoke it!" said McGilveray, winking at the big fellow, and spitting on the ground before the surly one, who made a motion as if he would bayonet McGilveray where he sat.
"He shall die—the cursed English soldier," said Johnny Crapaud.
"Some other day will do," said McGilveray. "What does he say?" asked
Johnny Crapaud.
"He says he'll give each of us three pounds of tobacco, if we let him go," answered the corporal. McGilveray knew by the corporal's voice that he was lying, and he also knew that, somehow, he had made a friend.
"Y'are lyin', me darlin', me bloody beauty!" interposed McGilveray.
"If we don't take him to headquarters now he'll send across and get the tobacco," interpreted the corporal to Johnny Crapaud.
"If he doesn't get the tobacco he'll be hung for a spy," said Johnny
Crapaud, turning on his heel. "Do we all agree?" said the corporal.
The others nodded their heads, and, as they went out, McGilveray said after them: