“Oh, he’s a kid that was a despatch rider, I think. Anyway, he’s wise to motorcycles. He’s had several consulting engineers on the job—Belgian, French, and British talent—but nothin’ doing. He’s gradually losing his head.”
“You couldn’t exactly blame them for not letting him have a file,” Tom said, reasonably enough, “or a wrench either for that matter, unless they watched him all the time.”
“Nah!” laughed his companion. “Nobody could file through that fence wire without the sentries hearing him; it’s as thick as a slate pencil, almost.”
“Just the same you can’t blame General Griffenhaus for not being willing to give files to prisoners. That’s the way prisoners always get away—in stories.”
About dusk of the same day Tom wandered to the pump, which was not far from the center of the vast oval. On the earth beside it a ragged figure sat, its back toward Tom, evidently investigating the obstreperous engine. Tom had never taken particular notice of this disused pump or of the little engine which, in happy days of yore, had brought the water up from the brook and made it available for the pump in a well below.
“Trying to dope it out?” he asked, by way of being sociable.
The “chief engineer,” who had half turned before Tom spoke, jumped to his feet as if frightened and stared blankly at Tom, who stood stark still gaping at him.
“Well—I’ll—be——” began the “chief engineer.”
Tom was grinning all over his face.
“Hello, Archer!”