“Waste paper!” said Ginger, “I call it just dust-bins.”
“There are more sacks than usual this week,” said Danny.
“Yes,” replied Philip, the Second of the Blacks. “We got one from old Bulky’s. They won’t generally give us any paper, but we saw his servant carrying it down to the rubbish heap. She said she had orders to burn every scrap herself. But we got her to give it to us.”
“Oh,” said Danny, thoughtfully.
“I vote we don’t open any of those sacks,” said Ginger. “Mr. Fox won’t ever know they weren’t sorted. It would save heaps of time.”
“It wouldn’t be fair,” said Danny. “He’s trusted us to do it—we must do it properly. Besides, we get more money if it’s properly sorted, and we want that twenty quid for the window.” And so an argument began. Everybody was hot when it started, but they got hotter and hotter. Ginger said he would not do a stroke of work unless Danny agreed not to sort the sacks that were not open. Philip was so offensive that Danny had to smack his head for him. And so it happened that these two young slackers departed for home and tea, and Danny found himself faced with the entire job alone. At first he thought he would chuck it up and go home, too. Then he decided not to “give in to himself.” And finally he remembered that every minute he worked he was serving the Holy Child, by earning money for the window, and he began to take a delight in getting as hot as possible, and almost relished the mouthfuls of dust he had to swallow. He battled with the sacks with the ardour of a Crusader fighting for the great cause, and suffered the discomfort in the spirit of a martyr. And when he came to the last sack, he was truly rewarded.
. . . . . . . .
It was long past tea time, for sorting the paper unaided was a long job. But Danny was determined he would not leave the hut until he had completely finished the job, and got the place swept clean and the room arranged for Sunday. It would be a surprise for the boys and Mr. Fox to-morrow morning, for he knew the Pack would not be coming back to headquarters that evening, but would dismiss in the village and go straight home. He was nearly tired out by the time he got to the last sack. Untying the string, he emptied the dusty contents on the floor, and picked out the newspaper, waste paper, and cardboard. He was about to shovel back the waste paper when his eyes fell on a scrap of a torn letter covered with curious writing that was certainly not English; the very characters were different. Picking it up, he looked at it carefully. Yes, they were the same funny characters as those on many of the letters that had been found in the possession of the German spies he had caught last autumn. “A German letter!” he said, “in one of our sacks! Of course ... Philip said they had got a sack from old Bulky. This is a clue; or rather it will be a strong piece of evidence if I can find the whole letter.” Eagerly he bent down and began searching about in the pile of waste paper. But it was at that moment that he heard the outer gate click and steps coming along the path. Glancing through the window, he saw to his dismay that it was the very last person in the world he wanted to see just then. It was Mr. Bulky!
III
THE LOCKED DOOR
When Danny saw Mr. Bulky coming down the path, he thought quick as lightning, and decided what to do, at once. Stepping out of the door, he slammed it after him, so that it locked itself. (The key was in his pocket.) Then he pretended he was off home, and, putting on his cap, began walking down the path towards Mr. Bulky.