Captain Jim

by Mary Grant Bruce

  CHAPTER XVI

  THROUGH THE DARKNESS

  "I think that's the last load," Jim Linton said.

  He had wriggled backwards out of a black hole in the side of a blackcupboard; and now sat back on his heels, gasping. His only article ofattire was a pair of short trousers. From his hair to his heels hewas caked with dirt.

  "Well, praise the pigs for that," said a voice from the blackness ofthe cupboard.

  Some one switched on a tiny electric light. Then it could be seen,dimly, that the cupboard was just large enough to hold four men,crouching so closely that they almost touched each other. All weredressed--or undressed--as Jim was; all were equally dirty. Theirblackened faces were set and grim. And whether they spoke, or moved,or merely sat still, they were listening--listening.

  All four were British officers. Marsh and Fullerton were subalternsbelonging to a cavalry regiment. Desmond was a captain--a DublinFusilier; and Jim Linton completed the quartette; and they sat in ahole in the ground under the floor of an officers' barrack in aWestphalian prison-camp. The yawning opening in front of themrepresented five months' ceaseless work, night after night. It wasthe mouth of a tunnel.

  "I dreamed to-day that we crawled in," Marsh said, in a whisper--theyhad all learned to hear the faintest murmur of speech. "And wecrawled, and crawled, and crawled: for years, it seemed. And then wesaw daylight ahead, and we crawled out--in Piccadilly Circus!"

  "That was 'some' tunnel, even in a dream," Desmond said.

  "I feel as if it were 'some' tunnel now," remarked Jim--stillbreathing heavily.

  "Yes--you've had a long spell, Linton. We were just beginning tothink something was wrong."

  "I thought I might as well finish--and then another bit of roof fellin, and I had to fix it," Jim answered. "Well, it won't be gardeningthat I'll go in for when I get back to Australia; I've dug enough hereto last me my life!"

  "Hear, hear!" said some one. "And what now?"

  "Bed, I think," Desmond said. "And to-morrow night--the last crawldown that beastly rabbit-run, if we've luck. Only this time we won'tcrawl back."

  He felt within a little hollow in the earth wall, and brought out someempty tins and some bottles of water; and slowly, painstakingly, theywashed off the dirt that encrusted them. It was a long business, andat the end of it Desmond inspected them all, and was himselfinspected, to make sure that no tell-tale streaks remained. Finallyhe nodded, satisfied, and then, with infinite caution, he slid back apanel and peered out into blackness--having first extinguished theirlittle light. There was no sound. He slipped out of the door, andreturned after a few moments.

  "All clear," he whispered, and vanished.

  One by one they followed him, each man gliding noiselessly away. Theyhad donned uniform coats and trousers before leaving, and closed theentrance to the tunnel with a round screen of rough, interlaced twigswhich they plastered with earth. The tins were buried again, withthe bottles. Ordinarily each man carried away an empty bottle, to bebrought back next night filled with water; but there was no furtherneed of this. To-morrow night, please God, there would be noreturning; no washing, crouched in the darkness, to escape the eagleeye of the guards; no bitter toil in the darkness, listening withstrained ears all the while.

  Jim was the last to leave. He slid the panel into position, andplaced against it the brooms and mops used in keeping the barrackclean. As he handled them one by one, a brush slipped and clatteredever so slightly. He caught at it desperately, and then stoodmotionless, beads of perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. Butno sound came from without, and presently he breathed more freely.

  He stood in a cupboard under the stairs. It was Desmond who firstrealized that there must be space beyond it, who had planned a way in,and thence to cut a tunnel to freedom. They had found, or stolen, ormanufactured, tools, and had cut the sliding panel so cunningly thatnone of the Germans who used the broom-cupboard had suspected itsexistence. The space on the far side of the wall had given them roomto begin their work. Gradually it had been filled with earth untilthere was barely space for them to move; then the earth as they dug itout had to be laboriously thrust under the floor of the building,which was luckily raised a little above ground. They had managed tosecrete some wire, and, having tapped the electric supply which litthe barrack, had carried a switch-line into their "dug-out." But thetunnel itself had, for the most part, been done in utter blackness.Three times the roof had fallen in badly, on the second occasionnearly burying Jim and Fullerton; it was considered, now, that Lintonwas a difficult man to bury, with an unconquerable habit ofresurrecting himself. A score of times they had narrowly escapeddetection. For five months they had lived in a daily and nightlyagony of fear--not of discovery itself, or its certain savagepunishment, but of losing their chance.

  There were eight officers altogether in the "syndicate," and fourothers knew of their plan--four who were keen to help, but too badlydisabled from wounds to hope for anything but the end of the war.They worked in shifts of four--one quartette stealing underground eachnight, as soon as the guards relaxed their vigil, while the othersremained in the dormitories, ready to signal to the working party,should any alarm occur, and, if possible, to create a disturbance tohold the attention of the Germans for a little. They had succeeded insaving the situation three times when a surprise roll-call was madeduring the night--thanks to another wire which carried an electricalarm signal underground from the dormitory. Baylis, who had been anelectrical engineer in time of peace, had managed the wiring; it wasbelieved among the syndicate that when Baylis needed any electricfitting very badly he simply went and thought about it so hard that itmaterialized, like the gentleman who evolved a camel out of his innerconsciousness.

  One of the romances of the Great War might be written about the way inwhich prisoners bent on escape were able to obtain materials forgetting out, and necessary supplies when once they were away from thecamp. Much of how it was done will never be known, for theorganization was kept profoundly secret, and those who were helped byit were often pledged solemnly to reveal nothing. Money--plenty ofmoney--was the only thing necessary; given the command of that, theprisoner who wished to break out would find, mysteriously, tools ordisguises, or whatever else he needed within the camp, and, after hehad escaped, the three essentials, without which he had very littlechance--map, compass, and civilian clothes. Then, having paidenormous sums for what had probably cost the supply system a fewshillings, he was at liberty to strike for freedom--with a section ofGerman territory--a few miles or a few hundred--to cross; and finallythe chance of circumventing the guards on the Dutch frontier. It wasso desperate an undertaking that the wonder was, not that so manyfailed, but that so many succeeded.

  Jim Linton had no money. His was one of the many cases amongprisoners in which no letters over seemed to reach home--nocommunication to be opened up with England. For some time he had notbeen permitted to write, having unfortunately managed to incur theenmity of the camp commandant by failing to salute him with theprecise degree of servility which that official considered necessaryto his dignity. Then, when at length he was allowed to send anoccasional letter, he waited in vain for any reply, either from hishome or his regiment. Possibly the commandant knew why; he used tolook at Jim with an evil triumph in his eye which made the boy long totake him by his fat throat and ask him whether indeed his letters evergot farther than the office waste-paper basket.

  Other officers in the camp would have written about him to theirfriends, so that the information could be passed on to Jim's father;but in all probability their letters also would have been suppressed,and Jim refused to allow them to take the risk. Letters were tooprecious, and went astray too easily; it was not fair to add to thechances of their failing to reach those who longed for them at home.And then, there was always the hope that his own might really have gotthrough, even though delayed; that some day might come answers,telling that at last his father and Norah and Wally were no longermourning him a
s dead. He clung to the hope though one mail day afteranother left him bitterly disappointed. In a German prison-camp therewas little to do except hope.

  Jim would have fared badly enough on the miserable food of the camp,but for the other officers. They received parcels regularly, thecontents of which were dumped into a common store; and Jim and another"orphan" were made honorary members of the mess, with such genuineheartiness that after the first protests they ceased to worry theirhosts with objections, and merely tried to eat as little as possible.

  Jim thought about them gratefully on this last night as he slipped outof the cupboard and made his way upstairs, moving noiselessly as a caton the bare boards. What good chaps they were! How they had made himwelcome!--even though his coming meant that they went hungrier. Theywere such a gay, laughing little band; there was not one of them whodid not play the game, keeping a cheery front to the world and meetingprivation and wretchedness with a joke and a shrug. If that wasBritish spirit, then Jim decided that to be British was a pretty bigthing.

  It was thanks to Desmond and Fullerton that he had been able to jointhe "syndicate." They had plenty of money, and had insisted onlending him his share of the expenses, representing, when he hadhesitated, that they needed his strength for the work oftunnelling--after which Jim had laboured far more mightily than theyhad ever wished, or even suspected. He was fit and strong again now;lean and pinched, as were they all, but in hard training. Hope hadkeyed him up to a high pitch. The last night in this rat-hole;to-morrow----!

  A light flashed downstairs and a door flung open just as he reachedthe landing. Jim sprang to his dormitory, flinging off his coat as heran with leaping, stealthy strides. Feet were tramping up the stairsbehind him. He dived into his blankets and drew them up under hischin, just as he had dived hurriedly into bed a score of times atschool when an intrusive master had come upon a midnight "spread"; butwith his heart pounding with fear as it had never pounded at school.What did they suspect? Had they found out anything?

  The guard tramped noisily into the room, under a big Feldwebel, orsergeant-major. He flashed his lantern down the long room, anduttered a sharp word of command that brought the sleepers to theirfeet, blinking and but half awake. Then he called the roll, pausingwhen he came to Jim.

  "You sleep in a curious dress. Where is your shirt?"

  "Drying," said Jim curtly. "I washed it--I've only one."

  "Enough for an English swine-hound," said the German contemptuously.He passed on to the next man, and Jim sighed with relief.

  Presently the guard clanked out, and the prisoners returned to theirstraw mattresses.

  "That was near enough," whispered Baylis, who was next to Jim.

  "A good deal too near," Jim answered. "However, it ought to be fairlycertain that they won't spring another surprise-party on us to-morrow.And a miss is as good as a mile." He turned over, and in a moment wassleeping like a baby.

  The next day dragged cruelly.

  To the eight conspirators it seemed as long as the weary stretch ofmonths since they had come to the camp. For a long while they hadavoided each other as far as possible in public, knowing that even twomen who talked much together were liable to be suspected of plotting;on this last day they became afraid even to look at each other, andwandered about, each endeavouring to put as great a distance aspossible between himself and the other seven. It became rather like acurious game of hide-and-seek, and by evening they were thoroughly"jumpy," with their nerves all on edge.

  They had no preparations to make. Scarcely any of their fewpossessions could be taken with them; they would find outside--if everthey got there--food and clothing. They had managed to make roughknives that were fairly serviceable weapons; beyond these, and a fewsmall personal belongings they took nothing except the clothes theywore--and they wore as little as possible, and those the oldest andshabbiest things to be found. So there was nothing to do, all thatlast day, but watch the slow hours pass, and endeavour to avoidfalling foul of any of the guards--no easy matter, since every Germandelighted in any chance of making trouble for a prisoner. Nothing butto think and plan, as they had planned and thought a thousand timesbefore; to wonder desperately was all safe still--had the door beenfound in the cupboard under the stairs? was the tunnel safe, or had itchosen to-day of all days to fall in again? was the exit--in a bed ofrunner beans--already known and watched? The Huns were so cunning intheir watchfulness; it was quite likely that they knew all about theirdesperate enterprise, and were only waiting to pounce upon them in theinstant that success should seem within their grasp. That was howthey loved to catch prisoners.

  The age-long afternoon dragged to a close. They ate their supper,without appetite--which was a pity, since the meagre store of food inthe mess had been recklessly ransacked, to give them a good send-off.Then another hour--muttering good-byes now and then, as they prowledabout; and finally, to bed, to lie there for hours of darkness andsilence. Gradually the noise of the camp died down. From theguard-room came, for a while, loud voices and harsh laughter; thenquiet fell there too, and presently the night watch tramped throughthe barrack on its last visit of inspection, flashing lanterns intothe faces of the prisoners. To-night the inspection seemed unusuallythorough. It set their strained nerves quivering anew.

  Then came an hour of utter stillness and darkness; the eight prisonerslying with clenched hands and set teeth, listening with terribleintentness. Finally, when Jim was beginning to feel that he mustmove, or go mad, a final signal came from the doorway. He heardBaylis say "Thank God!" under his breath, as they slipped out of bedin the darkness and felt their way downstairs. They were the last tocome. The others were all crouched in the cupboard, waiting for them,as they reached its door; and just as they did so, the outer doorwayswung open, with a blaze of light, and the big Feldwebel strode in.

  "Shut the door!" Jim whispered. He launched himself at the German ashe spoke, with a spring like a panther's. His fist caught him betweenthe eyes and he went down headlong, the lantern rolling into a corner.Jim knew nothing of what followed. He was on top of the Feldwebel,pounding his head on the floor; prepared, in his agony of despair, todo as much damage as possible before his brief dash for freedom ended.Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard Desmond's sharpwhisper.

  "Steady--he's unconscious. Let me look at him, Linton."

  Jim, still astride his capture, sat back, and Desmond flashed theFeldwebel's own lantern into that hero's face.

  "H'm, yes," he said. "Hit his head against something. He's stunned,anyhow. What are we going to do with him?"

  "Is he the only one?" Jim asked.

  "It seems like it. But there may be another at any moment. We've gotto go on; if he wakes up he'll probably be able to identify you." Hefelt in his pocket, and produced a coil of strong cord. "Come along,Linton--get off and help me to tie him up."

  They tied up the unconscious Feldwebel securely, and lifted him intothe cupboard among the brooms, gagging him in case he felt inclinedfor any outcry on coming to his senses. The others had gone ahead,and were already in the tunnel; with them, one of the four disabledofficers, whose job it was to close up the hole at the entrance anddismantle the electric light, in the faint hope that the Germans mightfail to discover their means of escape, and so leave it free foranother party to try for freedom. He stood by the yawning hole,holding one end of a string by which they were to signal from thesurface, if all went well. The wistfulness of his face haunted Jimlong afterwards.

  "Good-bye, old man," he said cheerily, gripping Jim's hand. "Goodluck."

  "I wish you were coming, Harrison," Jim said, unhappily.

  "No such luck. Cheero, though: the war won't last for ever. I'll seeyou in Blighty." They shook hands again, and Jim dived into thetunnel.

  He knew every inch of it, and wriggled quickly along until the top ofhis head encountered the boots of the man in front of him, after whichhe went more slowly. There seemed a long delay at the end--longenough to
make him break into a sweat of fear lest something shouldhave gone wrong. Such thoughts come easily enough when you are lyingfull length in black darkness, in a hole just large enough to hold aman; in air so stifling that the laboured breath can scarcely come;with the dank earth just under mouth and nose, and overhead a roofthat may fall in at any moment. The dragging minutes went by. Then,just as despair seized him, the boots ahead moved. He wriggled afterthem, finding himself praying desperately as he went. A rush of sweetair came to him, and then a hand, stretching down, caught hisshoulder, and helped him out.

  It was faintly moonlight. They stood in a thick plantation of runnerbeans, trained on rough trellis-work, in a garden beyond thebarbed-wire fence of the camp. The tunnel had turned sharply upwardsat the end; they had brought with them some boards and other materialsfor filling it up, and now they set to work furiously, after givingthe signal with the string to Harrison; the three sharp tugs thatmeant "All Clear!" The boards held the earth they shovelled in withtheir hands; they stamped it flat, and then scattered loose earth ontop, with leaves and rubbish, working with desperate energy--fearingeach moment to hear the alarm raised within the barrack. Finally allbut Desmond gained the beaten earth of the path, while he followed,trying to remove all trace of footprints on the soft earth. He joinedthem in a moment.

  "If they don't worry much about those beans for a few days they maynot notice anything," he said. "Come along."

  So often had they studied the way from behind the barbed-wire thatthey did not need even the dim moonlight. They hurried through thegarden with stealthy strides, bending low behind a row ofcurrant-bushes, and so over a low hedge and out into a field beyond.There they ran; desperately at first, and gradually slackening to asteady trot that carried them across country for a mile, and then outupon a highroad where there was no sign of life. At a cross-roads twomiles further on they halted.

  "We break up here," Desmond said. "You can find your _cache_ allright, you think, Baylis?"

  "Oh, yes," Baylis nodded. It had been thought too dangerous for somany to try to escape together, so two hiding-places of clothes andfood had been arranged. Later they would break up again into couples.

  "Then we'd better hurry. Good night, you fellows, and good luck.We'll have the biggest dinner in Blighty together--when we all getthere!"

  "Good luck!"

  Baylis led his party down a road to the east, and Jim, Fullerton andMarsh struck south after Desmond, who paused now and then to consult arough map, by a pocket-lamp. On and on, by a network of lanes,skirting farmhouses where dogs might bark; flinging themselves flat ina ditch once, when a regiment of Uhlans swept by, unconscious of thegasping fugitives a few yards away. Jim sat up and looked after theirretreating ranks.

  "By Jove, I wish we could borrow a few of their horses!"

  "Might buck you off, my son," said Desmond. "Come on."

  A little wood showed before them presently, and Desmond sighed withrelief.

  "That's our place, I think." He looked at the map again. "We've gotto make for the south-west corner and find a big, hollow tree."

  They brushed through the close-growing firs, starting in fear as anowl flew out above them, hooting dismally. It was not easy to findanything, for the moonlight was scarcely able to filter through thebranches. Jim took the lead, and presently they scattered to look forthe tree. Something big loomed up before Jim presently.

  "It should be about here," he muttered, feeling with his hand for thehollow. Then, as he encountered a roughly-tied bundle, he whistledsoftly, and in a moment brought them all to his side.

  There were four rough suits of clothes in the package; a big bag ofbread, meat, and chocolate; and, most precious of all, a flat boxcontaining maps, compasses, and some German money. They changedhurriedly, thrusting their uniforms deep into the hollow of the treeand covering them with leaves; and then divided the food. There was afaint hint of dawn in the sky when at length their preparations werecomplete.

  "Well, you know your general direction, boys," Desmond said to Marshand Fullerton. "Get as far as you can before light, and then hide forthe day. Hide well, remember; they'll be looking for us prettythoroughly to-day. Good luck!" They shook hands and hurried away indifferent directions.

  Desmond and Jim came out into open fields beyond the wood, and settleddown to steady running over field after field. Sometimes theystumbled over ploughed land; sometimes made their way between rows ofmangolds or turnips, where their feet sank deeply into the yieldingsoil; then, with a scramble through a ditch or hedge, came upon grassland where sheep or cows gazed stolidly at the shadowy, racingfigures. The east brightened with long streaks of pink; slowly thedarkness died, and the yellow circle of the sun came up over thehorizon, and found them still running--casting anxious glances toright and left in search of a hiding-place.

  "Hang these open fields!--will they never end!" Desmond gasped. "Weshould be under cover now."

  Behind a little orchard a farm-house came into view; they were almostupon a cow-house. It was daylight; a window in the house rattled up,and a man shouted to a barking dog. The fugitives ducked by a suddenimpulse, and darted into the cow-shed.

  It was a long, low building, divided into stables. There was nohiding-place visible, and despair held them for a moment. Then Jimcaught sight of a rough ladder leading to an opening in the ceiling,and flung his hand towards it; he had no speech left. They went up ithand over hand, and found themselves in a dim loft, with pea-strawheaped at one end. Desmond was almost done.

  "Lie down--quick!" Jim pushed him into the straw and covered him overwith great bundles of it. Then he crawled in himself, pulling therough pea-stalks over him until he had left himself only a peep-holecommanding the trap-door. As he did so, voices came into the stable.

  They held their breath, feeling for their knives. Then Desmondsmothered a laugh.

  "What did they say?" Jim whispered.

  "It would be 'Bail up, Daisy!' in English," Desmond whispered back."They're beginning to milk the cows."

  "I wish they'd milk Daisy up here," Jim grinned. "Man, but I'mthirsty!"

  It was thirsty work, lying buried in the dusty pea-straw, in theclose, airless loft. Hours went by, during which they dared not move,for when the milking was done, and the cows turned out, people keptcoming and going in the shed. They picked up a little informationabout the war from their talk--Jim's German was scanty, but Desmondspoke it like a native; and in the afternoon a farmer from somedistance away, who had apparently come to buy pigs, let fall theremark that a number of prisoners had escaped from the English camp.No one seemed much interested; the war was an incident, not reallymattering so much, in their estimation, as the sale of the pigs. Thenevery one went away, and Jim and his companion fell asleep.

  It was nearly dark when they awoke. The sleep had done them good, butthey were overpoweringly thirsty--so thirsty that the thought of foodwithout drink was nauseating. The evening milking was going on; theycould hear the rattle of the streams of milk into the pails, in theintervals of harsh voices. Then the cows were turned out and heavyfeet stamped away.

  "They should all be out of the way pretty soon," Desmond whispered."Then we can make a move. We must get to water somehow, or----" Hebroke off, listening. "Lie still!" he added quickly. "Some one iscoming up for straw."

  "How do you know?"

  "'Tis a young lady, and she volunteering to see to bedding for thepigs!" Desmond answered.

  The ladder creaked, and, peering out, they saw a shock yellow headrise into the trap-door. The girl who came up was abouttwenty--stoutly built, with a broad, good-humoured face. She worerough clothes, and but for her two thick plaits of yellow hair, mighteasily have passed for a man.

  The heavy steps came slowly across the floor, while the men lay tryingto breath so softly that no unusual movement should stir the loosepea-straw. Then, to their amazement, she spoke.

  "Where are you?" she said in English.

  Astonishment a
s well as fear held them silent. She waited a moment,and spoke again.

  "I saw you come in. You need not be afraid."

  Still they made no sign. She gave a short laugh.

  "Well, if you will not answer, I must at least get my straw for mypigs."

  She stooped, and her great arms sent the loose stalks flying in everydirection. Desmond and Jim sat up and looked at her in silence.

  "You don't seem to want to be killed," Desmond said. "But assuredlyyou will be, if you raise an alarm."

  The girl laughed.

  "I could have done that all day, if I had wished," she said. "Eversince I saw you run in when I put up my window this morning."

  "Well--what do you want? Money?"

  "No." She shook her head. "I do not want anything. I was brought upin England, and I think this is a silly war. There is a bucket ofmilk for you downstairs; it will come up if one of you will pull thestring you will find tied to the top of the ladder." She laughed."If I go to get it you will think I am going to call for help."

  Jim was beyond prudence at the moment. He took three strides to theladder, found the cord, and pulled up a small bucket, three parts fullof new milk. The girl sat down on an empty oil-drum and watched themdrink.

  "So! You are thirsty, indeed," she said. "Now I have food."

  She unearthed from a huge pocket a package of bread and sausage.

  "Now you can eat. It is quite safe, and you could not leave yet; myuncle is still wandering about. He is like most men; they wanderabout and are very busy, but they never do any work. I run the farm,and get no wages, either. But in England I got wages. In Clapham.That is the place of all others which I prefer."

  "Do you, indeed?" Desmond said, staring at this amazing female. "Butwhy did you leave Clapham?"

  "My father came back to fight. He knew all about the war; he leftEngland two months before it began. I did not wish to leave. Idesired to remain, earning good wages. But my father would not permitme."

  "And where is he now?"

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "I do not know. Fighting: killed, perhaps. But my uncle graciouslyoffered me a home, and here am I. I do the work of three men, and Iam--how did we say it in Clapham?--bored stiff for England. I wishthis silly old war would end, so that I could return."

  "We're trying to return without waiting for it to end," said Jimsolemnly. "Only I'd like to know how you knew what we were."

  "But what else could you be? It is so funny how you put on theseclothes, like the ostrich, and think no one will guess who you are.If you wore his suit of feathers you would still look like Britishofficers and nothing else."

  "You're encouraging," said Desmond grimly. "I hope all your nationwon't be as discerning."

  "Ach--they!" said the girl. "They see no farther than their noses.I, too, was like that before I went to Clapham."

  "It's a pleasant spot," said Desmond. "I don't wonder you improvedthere. But all the same, you are German, aren't you? I don't quitesee why you want to befriend us." He took a satisfying mouthful ofsausage. "But I'm glad you do."

  "In England I am--well, pretty German," said his fair hostess. "Theboys in Clapham, they call me Polly Sauer Kraut. And I talk of theFatherland, and sing 'Die Wacht am Rhein.' Oh yes. But when I comeback here and work for my so economical uncle on this beastly farm,then I remember Clapham and I do not feel German at all. I cannothelp it. But if I said so, I would skinned be, very quickly. So Isay 'Gott Strafe England!' But that is only eyewash!"

  "Well, we'll think kindly of one German woman, anyhow," said Desmond."The last of your charming sisters I met was a Red Cross nurse at astation where our train pulled up when I was going through, wounded.I asked her for a glass of water, and she brought it to me allright--only just as she gave it to me she spat in it. I've been awoman-hater ever since, until I met you." He lifted the bucket, andlooked at her over its rim. "Here's your very good health, Miss PollySauer Kraut, and may I meet you in Clapham!"

  The girl beamed.

  "Oh, I will be there," she said confidently. "I have money in theBank in London: I will have a little baker shop, and you will get suchpastry as the English cannot make."

  Jim laughed.

  "And then you will be pretty German again!"

  "I do not know." She shook her head. "No, I think I will just beSwiss. They will not know the difference in Clapham. And I do notthink they will want Germans back. Of course, the Germans willgo--but they will call themselves Swiss, Poles, any old thing. Justat first, until the English forget: the English always forget, youknow."

  "If they forget all they've got to remember over this business--wellthen, they deserve to get the Germans back," said Desmond, grimly."Always excepting yourself, Miss Polly. You'd be an ornament towhichever nation you happened to favour at the moment." He finishedthe last remnant of his sausage. "That was uncommonly good, thankyou. Now, don't you think we could make a move?"

  "I will see if my uncle is safely in. Then I will whistle." She randown the ladder, and presently they heard a low call, and going down,found her awaiting them in the cow-shed.

  "He is at his supper, so all is quite safe," she said. "Now you hadbetter take the third road to the right, and keep straight on. It isnot so direct as the main road, but that would lead you throughseveral places where the police are very active--and there is a rewardfor you, you know!" She laughed, her white teeth flashing in the dimshed. "Good-bye; and when I come back to Clapham you will come andtake tea at my little shop."

  "We'll come and make you the fashion, Miss Polly," said Desmond."Thank you a thousand times." They swung off into the dusk.