Kors got up, packed his kit, folded his blankets, and cheered by the thought of his holiday, hummed a soldier's tune.
As he felt in his pocket he stopped suddenly. "Good heavens! I could have sworn that I put it in my waistcoat pocket."
"What? What's up now, you grumbling devil?" asked Warner.
"Dash it! Begga Leuven's penknife, ... my Begga.... The pretty knife which she bought me for my fête day when I was last in Antwerp."
"Well?"
"I cannot find it!... There's a fine state of things.... What will Begga say? I wanted to show her the little treasure still bright and new. The dear soul will never forgive my carelessness."
"Nonsense! she'll give you another.... Besides, it is not lucky to give knives; they cut the bonds of love!" Warner added gravely; "they bring misfortune."
"In the mean time, the bother is that I've lost the knife. Damn it!"
He turned his pockets inside out in vain.
"Well, I suppose I must make the best of it," he said at last.