"Yes, sir," replied Tom.
"Tell us where."
Whereupon Tom told of Waterman's association with him in Brunford, and of the conversations he had had with the prisoner.
"I didn't quite understand at the time," said Tom, "why he seemed so sure of the Germans getting the best of it. He seemed to be glad when he told me of the tremendous strength of the German army, and the preparations they had made. He said he had been to Germany to school, and had lived there a long time; that was how he came to know so much about it. I could never quite make it out how an Englishman who loved his country could be so sure that the Germans would win. Besides, he didn't talk about it as though it would be a calamity, but something he would be proud of; but I don't know that I thought much of it at the time, especially when he told me he was going to receive a commission in our Army; but later on, when I found out the Germans knew what we were going to do, I wondered how they'd found out, and that led me to put one thing to another."
This was not strict evidence, and the officers knew it, but they allowed Tom to tell his story his own way.
"That was why I determined to watch him," went on Tom, "and—well, sir, that was how things turned out as they did."
When Tom's evidence came to an end he was told to retire. The lad was sorely grieved at this, because he would have liked to remain to the end; but after all, he was only a private, and he was there simply to give his evidence.
"Shooting's too good for him," thought Tom as he left the room. "What a look he did give me! If a look could murder a man I should not be alive now!"
"Now then," said the President to Waterman, when Tom had gone, "what have you got to say for yourself?"
"Nothing," replied Waterman. He was no longer respectful or polite.
His every word suggested insolence.