Mr. Bates examined it carefully. “That’s German, sure enough,” he said, trying to read it aloud, and only succeeding in making a series of noises very much like his old sow. Danny laughed. “Well,” said Mr. Bates, “how did you get this? Old Bulky don’t know you’ve got it, do ’e?”
“Yes,” said Danny, “he knows I have got it. And what’s more, he knows I have brought it to you.”
Mr. Bates said something strong. “That’s done it,” he added. “He’ll be gone away to London by now, and no more shall we see of him. Couldn’t you have managed to let me know quicker?”
Danny was chuckling to himself.
“I knew you’d be disappointed when I told you, so I’ve brought you something in the trek cart to cheer you up.”
Mr. Bates grunted. He did not sound very grateful.
“Come and see,” said Danny. Mr. Bates walked up to the trek cart and looked at the bundle. He gave it a poke with his carving fork, whereupon the bundle emitted a yell of pain and a torrent of German abuse. Mr. Bates, frightened out of his wits, was half across his little garden in one bound.
“What is it?” he asked, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“Only Mr. Bulky,” said Danny, doubled up with laughter. “You’ve hurt him, I’m afraid, with your fork.”
Mr. Bates, still half afraid of the uncanny bundle in the trek cart, drew near, somewhat gingerly. Then, as the situation dawned on him, he gave vent to a roar of laughter like a bull. He laughed so much that he had to sit down on a seat. At last he got up and went over to the trek cart.