“But we have no money to pay for them.”
“Bah!”
“You mean you will steal them,” suggested Sebastian, not without a ring of contempt in his mincing voice.
“A soldier never steals,” answered Barlasch, carelessly announcing a great truth.
Sebastian laughed. It was obvious that his mind, absorbed in great thought, heeded small things not at all. His companion pushed his fur cap to the back of his head, and ruffled his hair forward.
“That is not all,” he said at length. He looked round the vast room, which was almost deserted. The stout waitress was polishing pewter mugs at the bar. “You say you have already had answers to those letters. It is a great organization—your secret society—whatever it is called. It delivers letters all over Prussia—eh? and Poland perhaps—or farther still.”
Sebastian shrugged one shoulder, and made no answer for some time.
“I have already told you,” he said impatiently, at length, “to forget the incident; you were paid.”
By way of reply, the old soldier laboriously emptied his pockets, searching the most remote of them for small copper coins. He counted slowly and carefully until he had made up a thaler.
“But it is not my turn to be paid this time. It is I who pay.”