They were nine one pound
notes; all numbered, of course. Beyond this and the number on
the watch there was nothing to afford a clue.'--"
Here Barham paused for a glance up at the roof of the dug-out, as two
explosions sounded pretty near at hand. "Huns saying good-night," he
interpolated. "Can't have spotted us. Nothing doing aloft these
three days."
Polkinghorne looked across the light at the C.O., who sat
unaccountably silent, his face inscrutable in the penumbra.
Taking silence for "yes," Polkinghorne arose and put his head outside
for a look around.
"Queer story, you'll admit, sir?" put in Sammy Barham during this
pause. "Shall I go on, or wait for the rollicking Polly to hear it
out?--for the queerest part is to come."
"I know," said Otway, after some two or three seconds' silence.
"Eh? . . . But it's just here, sir, the thing of a sudden gets
mysteriouser and mysteriouser--"
Polkinghorne came back. "Nerves," he reported. "They're potting all
over the place. . . . Here, Sammy, pass over that scrap of paper if
you've finished reading.
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