Small hope as he had of ever seeing again his own lines, yet he
missed nothing of importance, storing up each hill, valley, clump of
trees, and track in his tenacious memory.
At last they came within sight of a group of squalid hovels in a valley.
'That's Keni,' Ken told Roy.
The brutal corporal caught the word.
'That's Keni,' he repeated in his own language, 'and, by the beard of the
Prophet, you shall soon see how spies are dealt with.'
The village swarmed with soldiers, many of them wounded, who stared at the
two British prisoners with lack-lustre eyes. The narrow street of the
place reeked with filth and foul odours, and swarmed with a pestilence of
flies. The two youngsters were thrust roughly into a dirty hovel, and with
a final jeer from their brutal jailer, the door was locked behind them.
For a moment Roy stood straight, towering in the centre of the low-roofed
room. There was a very ugly light in his eyes.
'Wait, my friend, wait!' he said hoarsely. 'I'll be even with you before
I've finished.
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