"Yes. You see I'm an engineer and supposed to know something about oil. If you know anything of this country you are aware that they have some big oil wells in the north-west section. As a matter of fact they've got about the finest certified gold mine in those same oil fields that I've ever seen, especially since the war broke out, and they've been able to sell petroleum to Austria and Germany at war prices.
"Another Englishman and myself signed on here three years ago," he went on. "All the work is done under the superintendence of imported engineers, mostly Austrian and German. Redfield and I were the only Englishmen there, and he left over a year ago—lucky beggar! When the war broke out things got pretty uncomfortable for me. You see, the owners didn't want to lose the profits they make on shipping oil across the border, and for that reason they've been fighting tooth and nail to keep the country neutral. I came under suspicion naturally and I suppose I was pretty outspoken. I had a dust-up pretty nearly every day with some of the others, and finally, when I tried to get out of the country to go home and enlist, they clapped me into jail. That was six months ago, and I've been there ever since—a filthy hole with a wooden bench as a bed and a family of toads as company. Four days ago I persuaded one of the guards—with the bench—to let me go. I got away safely enough, but one of the other guards nearly potted me. Since then I've been beating my way back to civilisation, begging from the peasants and sleeping under the glorious panoply of heaven. I haven't a cent in my pockets. I haven't even a hat. Perhaps you will now appreciate the faint stirring of pleasure that came over me when I met a man who talked English—and had a motor-car!"
Fenton decided that he liked this Englishman and that he could safely trust him. Accordingly he told Crane something of the mission which was taking him to the hill country.
"Suits me down to the ground," said Crane, gripping Fenton's hand again. "I'll go along as interpreter—anything at all so long as I get my share of the scrapping. I've acquired a grouch against the whole country that won't work off until I've battered my fists on some honest Ironian faces. I've stayed here six months at their wish; now I'll stay a few days longer on my own account and wipe off a few scores. Besides I came out here with a sneaking hope that I'd meet with romantic adventures of the Anthony Hope brand—you know, pink the prince and marry the beautiful lady-in-waiting and all that sort of thing. So far, the only Ironian women I've met have been honest peasant bodies who looked on sour milk as a luxury."
At this point the old priest approached them and intimated that it had been his intention to ask Mr Fenton to partake of his humble fare, and perhaps the new-comer, too, would join them.
They accepted; Crane with a readiness that spoke eloquently of the length of his fast. Fenton then hastily scribbled a note to Varden and handed it to Jaleski.
"Tell him, Crane," he said, "that he's to get back to Serajoz as fast as he can do it with any degree of safety. Tell him it's a matter of life and death, but that he isn't to run any risk of killing himself till after he's delivered that note."
Crane relayed the message to Jaleski, who acknowledged it with a deep obeisance and climbed with alacrity into the driver's seat. The car glided off and, with rapidly increasing speed, vanished into the distance. The cloud of dust that marked its course showed that Jaleski had understood fully the first part of the message, if not the last.
"Lord help anyone or anything that gets on the road between here and Serajoz this day!" said Fenton.
They followed the priest to a vine-covered cottage standing beside the village church. On entering they found themselves in a small room, scrupulously clean and reflecting an atmosphere almost of culture despite the cheapness of the sparse furnishings. A table and several wooden chairs and a small case of unsized boards containing a few ancient, much-used books were the chief articles that the room contained. At one end was a stone fireplace, blackened by the smoke of many score years. On the mantle above was a large crucifix. The table was set for a frugal supper of dried goat meat, black bread and fruit. The priest, with an air of earnest courtesy that might have graced the most sumptuous of banquets, bade his guests be seated. A silent serving-woman of rare old age but unimpaired activity placed two extra plates and the necessary knives and forks. Neither Fenton nor Crane needed any second bidding to fall to, for the former's appetite had been whetted on the trip from the capital, and the latter had reached the stage where a piece of dried leather would have seemed a toothsome morsel. The priest ate sparingly himself and watched the prodigious efforts of his young guests with a benevolent smile lurking in the fine wrinkles that time had written around eyes and mouth.