“This near fore-shoe,” he said in French, turning to his horse, “is nearly off. It has been loose all the way from Wilanow. This is a foundry, is it not? There must be a hammer and some nails about.”
Martin gave a sort of gasp of relief. For a moment he had thought there was no loop-hole.
Cartoner looked towards the door, and the light fell full upon his patient, thoughtful face. The faces of the men standing in a half-circle in front of him were in the dark.
“Good! He's a brave man!” muttered the man who had spoken in Martin's ear. It was Kosmaroff. And he stepped back a pace.
“Yes,” said Martin, hastily, “this is a foundry. I can get you a hammer.”
His right hand was opening and shutting convulsively. Cartoner glanced at it, and Martin put it behind his back. He was rather breathless, and he was angrily wishing that he had the Englishman's nerve.
“You might tell these men,” he said, in French, “of my mishap; perhaps one of them can put it right, and I can get along home. I am desperately hungry. The journey had been so slow from Wilanow.”
He had already perceived that Kosmaroff understood both English and French, and that it was of him that Martin was afraid. He spoke slowly, so as to give Martin time to pull himself together. Kosmaroff stepped forward to the horse and examined the shoe indicated. It was nearly off.
Martin turned, and explained in Polish that the gentleman had come for a hammer and some nails—that his horse had nearly lost a shoe. Cartoner had simply forced him to become his ally, and had even indicated the line of conduct he was to pursue.
“Get a hammer—one of you,” said Kosmaroff, over his shoulder, and Martin bit his lip with a sudden desire to speak—to say more than was discreet. He took his cue in some way from Cartoner, without knowing that wise men cease persuading the moment they have gained consent. Never comment on your own victory.