"No, there's no moon," he said in answer to Fitzgerald's remark.
"How far is it to the next village?" asked Fitzgerald and shoved the rounds into the magazine. The cartridge-clip clattered on to the cobbles.
"You've dropped something," said the stranger. "What was it?"
"I've dropped nothing," the Irishman replied. "I must have hit my boot against something."
He glanced at the stranger's face. White and ghostly it looked, with a protruding jowl and a dark moustache that drooped over the lips. As Fitzgerald spoke he pressed the bolt home and now felt a certain confidence enter his being. There was the round snug in the breech of his rifle. One touch of the trigger....
"Did you think I dropped a shilling?" he laughed. "Wish I had one to throw away."
"Many a one would wish the same," said the man gruffly.
Then he whistled a tune through his teeth, a contemplative whistle as if he were considering something.
"You're at Y—— Farm, of course," he suddenly remarked. "There are a number of soldiers billeted there. You know the way to it?"
"I know the way," Fitzgerald answered.