"God bless my soul! Just think of that!" cried the tourist.
"'Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?'
Good fellows, you take my breath away. You have made me feel the need of refreshment. With your indulgence, I will consume a sandwich."
He produced a packet of sandwiches, extracted one and demolished it with evident relish, quoting poetry all the time about the beauties of meat and drink. Two more sandwiches followed the first, and then, unscrewing the top of a flask, he set it to his lips and drank.
And what a thirst he had. What ample accommodation for liquor! Not once did he remove the flask from his mouth until the contents had gurgled down his throat. Even then he seemed reluctant to admit that he had drained the last drop, for he glanced into the recesses of the flask with a wistful and still-thirsty eye.
"Greedy beggar!" muttered Bill to Sam. "Never even offered us a 'wet', and us half-frozen to death!"
Whether the tourist heard this whispered comment or not was problematical, but he seemed suddenly to become aware that two pairs of eyes were fixed upon him yearningly. He jumped up with an apologetic air.
"Please forgive me," he said. "Really, you will think me most impolite. Permit me to offer you a sandwich each. Nay, take two apiece. Don't be afraid of them; they won't bite you."
"Then we'll bite them, thankee, sir," said Sam, proceeding to find the sandwiches a good home within his hungry anatomy.
Between them, the plain-clothes men, urged to do so by the tourist, polished off the sandwiches. Then they drew the backs of their hands across their mouths and sighed.