“Ye haven’t a bite o’ somethin’ to eat, I suppose, Mister; or a glass o’ beer? I usually ’as my dinner at twelve o’clock.”
Both the officers laughed, and the older said:
“Get him some food, Bradshaw, and a bottle of beer from the mess. We’ll keep this old man here. He interests me.”
While the younger man was doing this, the chief pressed a button and summoned another junior officer.
“Gateshead,” he remarked, “ring up the G.H.Q. and instruct them to arrest the gardener in that convent at the top of the hill and then to report.”
The officer saluted and went out, and in a few minutes a tray of hot food and a large bottle of beer were brought to the old man, and he was left alone in the corner of the room to negotiate this welcome compensation. And in the execution he did himself and his county credit. In the meanwhile the officers were very busy. People were coming and going and examining maps, and telephone bells were ringing furiously. They did not disturb old Sam’s gastric operations. He cleaned up the mess tins and finished the last drop of beer. The senior officer found time to offer him a cigarette, but he replied:
“Thank ’ee kindly, sir, but I’d rather smoke my pipe.”
The colonel smiled and said:
“Oh, all right; smoke away.”
He lighted up, and the fumes of the shag permeated the room. Some one opened another window, and the young officer who had addressed him at first suddenly looked at him and exclaimed: