“Have a try now, Mo.”
But Mo bade him fry his ugly face, and thus established harmony.
It was late that evening before Doggie could find an opportunity of slipping, unobserved, through the open door into the house kitchen dimly illuminated by an oil lamp.
“Madame,” said he to Toinette, “I observed to-day that you had come to the end of your snuff. Will you permit a little English soldier to give you some? Also a little box to keep it in.”
The old woman, spare, myriad-wrinkled beneath her peasant’s coiffe, yet looking as if carved out of weather-beaten oak, glanced from the gift to the donor and from the donor to the gift.
“But, monsieur—monsieur—why?” she began quaveringly.
“You surely have some one—là bas—over yonder?” said Doggie with a sweep of his hand.
“Mais oui? How did you know? My grandson. Mon petiot——”
“It is he, my comrade, who sends the snuff to the grand’mére.” And Doggie bolted.