"Please don't think of it, Tubby," Merritt implored him. "We promise to do everything in our power to find the grub. Brace up! We're coming to a village; and I think I can see an inn the first thing."
It proved to be as Merritt had said, and better still, the man who kept the modest little tavern assured Rob in fair English that he would be proud to serve the honored guests; also that he had once spent a year in the Birmingham machine shops himself.
"Just like all the rest, he takes us for Johnny Bulls," complained Tubby.
"Well, that's partly your fault," Rob told him.
"Just because I'm so well filled out, I suppose you mean, Rob? Well, if they keep on thinking that, I guess I'll have to get busy and cultivate a real cockney accent. 'Beg pawdon; thank you; my word!' You see I've got a few of their favorite jabs spotted."
As before, they found themselves the object of more attention than any of them enjoyed. People kept peeping in through the open door of the room where the three strange young chaps in khaki were enjoying their really excellent supper.
"Don't mind them," advised Rob, when he saw that Tubby was posing, as if conscious of being in the lime-light. "Let's finish our supper, and then we can sit outside on the porch as the sun goes down, and talk over our plans for to-morrow."
"Yes," added Merritt quickly, "because to-morrow may take us so far on our journey that we'll either find our man, or meet with some bitter disappointment, something I hate to think about."
"Don't do it, then," advised Rob. "We must believe everything is bound to come out right, and that you'll not only run across Steven Meredith, but that the paper will be found under the lining of the cover to his field-glass case, where he's been carrying it all this while, without knowing it."
"One thing sure," said Merritt grimly, "if he's left that post and gone anywhere else, I'll follow him, hit or miss, if it takes me to the battle front."