"We must dispose of him—that's all."
"Or else we must get jobs as stokers. But enough of this—see that man coming along there eyeing the benches?"
"Yes."
"I believe he's a spy. He is really looking more at the men than at the benches. We must be very careful, or one of those fellows will get in our way."
"It will be the worse for him," muttered Dale under his breath, as he went on with his work with redoubled energy.
"And for us too," replied Max, lifting a heavy shell with an ease that many of the regular workmen, practised though they were, could not have excelled.
The man stopped when he reached the bench on which Max and Dale were working. "Where are you from?" he enquired sharply, in very indifferent Walloon.
"Yonder," replied Max, nodding towards the poorer quarter of the town. "Back of Rue Gheude."
"You're a Belgian, eh?"
"Yes," admitted Max with an appearance of reluctance.