“Think it’ll rain?” asked Bat.
“The wind’s from the northwest,” stated the sergeant-major.
Bat bit at his cigar viciously. Though not able to give any good reason for it, he wished it would select some other quarter.
“The northwest!” said he, to himself. “What the dickens is there about the northwest that——” here he stopped, a thought taking shape in his mind. “I’ll go out,” said he, gravely. “There might be something doing, out that way; and if no one’s there it might break out.”
He called once more to Kretz.
“Hello,” answered the man.
“Come down,” requested Bat, “and open the gate. I want to go out.”
The sergeant-major descended from the wall.
“To go out,” stated he, “is not wise. Outside there is danger—from the tramps.”
“Unbolt the gate,” said Bat, serenely. “I rather like tramps. In fact, one of the regrets of my young life is that I’ve met so few of them.”