"I shouldn't have brought him here; I shouldn't have brought him here," he muttered brokenly.
The scraping of the ponderous bar that bolted the door interrupted his meditations shortly after daybreak. The door creaked rustily on its hinges, and an ugly, leering Chinese face peered inside. Satisfying himself that his prisoners were not planning mischief, the Chinaman thrust two bowls of soggy rice and a pannikin of water inside and gestured to Peter Gross that he must eat. The indignant protest of the door as it closed awoke Paddy, who sat bolt upright and blinked sleepily until he saw the food.
"What? Time for breakfast?" he exclaimed with an amiable grin. "I must have overslept."
He picked up a bowl of rice, stirred it critically with one of the chopsticks their jailers had provided, and snuffed at the mixture. He put it down with a wry face.
"Whew!" he whistled. "It's stale."
"You had better try to eat something," Peter Gross advised.
"I'm that hungry I could eat toasted sole leather," Paddy confessed. "But this stuff smells to heaven."
Peter Gross took the other bowl and began eating, wielding the chopsticks expertly.
"It isn't half bad—I've had worse rations on board your uncle's ship," he encouraged.
"Then my dear old avunculus ought to be hung," Paddy declared with conviction. Hunger and his superior's example finally overcame his scruples, however, and presently he was eating with gusto.