'THIS 'ERE LOOKS A BIT OF ORL RIGHT,' SAID THE TRAMP.

The tramp had drawn a battered leather purse from the recesses of his rags.

'Well, I can pay fer wot I eats, young 'un, same as anyone else. I've bin 'elpin' at a farm over Marleigh way, an' I got me wages.'

'Well, a cup of tea's a penny and the cakes are twopence,' said William.

He looked anxiously at the door as he spoke. He was aware that the presence of this customer in the canteen would not be approved by Authority, and he was eager to do what he could to satisfy him before Authority could intervene.

But the tramp was taking his time . . . wandering down the trestle table, inspecting each plate in turn.

'The treacle tart looks jolly good,' said William.

'Maybe,' said the tramp. 'I'll 'ave a good look round, anyways, an' see wot I fancies . . .' His eye rested on the tea-cake that lay on the trestle table in front of William's chair. 'This 'ere looks a bit of orl right.'

'You can't have that,' said William. 'That's for Miss Smith's soldier.'

'An' 'oo may 'e be?' said the tramp indifferently. 'Well, I jus' fancies that cake an' I don't fancy any of the others. 'Ow much is it?'

'It isn't for sale,' said William.

The tramp shook his head.

'If a cake's displayed 'ere, it's fer sale,' he said stubbornly. 'That's the lor, young 'un. You can't refuse money fer somethin' wot's displayed fer sale same as this 'ere cake is, an' I've took a fancy to it. It's bigger than the others, an' I'm willin' to pay a bigger price fer it. 'Ow about fourpence?'

'B-but it's not for sale,' said William again.

'Now, young 'un,' said the tramp, 'you can't refuse fourpence fer the funds of this 'ere canteen. Where's yer patriotism? This 'ere Mrs Smith 'ooever she is won't grudge fourpence to a war he'ffort like this 'ere, nor will 'er soldier 'ooever 'e is. Not if they've got any patriotism. Mind you, fourpence is fourpence an' everyone wouldn't give it you fer a cake this size, but I've took a fancy to it. It's a satisfyin' lookin' sort of cake, the sort I used to 'ave when I was a child . . . Well, make up yer mind quick, young 'un. If I wos you, I wouldn't like to take the responsibility of turning down a hoffer like this. I don't suppose 'ooever runs this 'ere show'll be pleased when they comes to 'ear of it. You don't get hoffered fourpence fer a cake hevery day.'

William considered. After all, there would be one tea-cake left, and Miss Smith's soldier was not expecting more than one. To sell one to the tramp would be, as the tramp pointed out, fourpence clear profit to the canteen funds.

'All right,' he said suddenly, 'you can have it.'

'Thanks, young 'un,' said the tramp. 'Now you can 'ave the satisfaction of thinkin' that you've give one of 'is Majesty's ole soldiers a treat an' made fourpence for the war heffort . . .' He opened the battered purse, put four pennies down on the trestle table, slipped the cake into his bundle, then slung the bundle over his shoulder again. 'Well, so long, young 'un.'

He shuffled out, stopping at the doorway to light an old clay pipe. William went to the door and watched him wistfully as he took his way over the fields in the direction of Marleigh, his rags fluttering in the breeze. The attractions of every other imaginable career paled in comparison. After all, he considered, brightening, once he was twenty-one, no one could stop him being a tramp if he wanted to . . . Then he returned to the canteen and to the contemplation of his more immediate problems. Had he done right in selling the tea-cake to the tramp? Were the claims of Miss Smith's soldier more important than the claims of the canteen funds? Would he get into trouble if it were found out? Perhaps it never would be found out. Mrs Mason was notoriously absent-minded. It probably depended on whether the Pyramid Post-War Reconstruction Plan proved worthy of being written up . . .

The door opened and Miss Smith's soldier entered, walking slowly and painfully, leaning on his stick.

'Miss Smith not here?' he said, looking round the canteen.

He had a quiet gentle voice that went well with his appearance of neatness and delicacy. There was about him the suggestion of one who had suffered illness and poverty but never lost his self-respect.

'She won't be long,' said William. 'She had to go back to the Vicarage 'cause of the bend in the stair carpet. She left the tea-cake for you.'

The soldier smiled pleasantly at William.

'That's very kind of her,' he said. 'I'm sorry I can't wait to see her. I have to go back to Hadley . . . You'll give her my thanks and grateful regards won't you? and tell her how sorry I was not to be able to stay and see her.'

'Yes,' said William, greatly impressed by the courtly bearing of the visitor.

He put the remaining cake into a bag and handed it over the table.

Still smiling pleasantly and drawing himself up for a ceremonious salute, Miss Smith's soldier took his departure.

William felt gratified at having partic.i.p.ated in the little drama that had become so famous. His conscience still troubled him about the other two tea-cakes, but again he a.s.sured himself that the soldier had only expected one.

The minutes pa.s.sed . . . Boredom and hunger once more began to claim him, but, before he could yield to either, Miss Smith came trotting into the room, her small face wearing its usual shy, timid, apologetic smile.

'I am so sorry to have left you for so long,' she said. 'It is kind of you to have stayed. The stair carpet proved difficult indeed at the bend, but dear kind Mrs Monks and I have finally mastered it . . . Has my soldier been?'

'Yes,' said William. 'I gave him your cake.'

'That is good,' said Miss Smith with what seemed to be a quick sigh of relief. 'That is indeed good. I should not have liked the poor man to miss his tea-cake . . . Well, my dear boy, I must not keep you longer.' She took an ap.r.o.n from her bag and began to tie it round her waist. 'I suppose you have not had many customers?'

'N-not many,' said William and was wondering how to account for the extra fourpence without revealing that he had disposed of a tea-cake intended for the old soldier, when the door opened and the old soldier himself came in. He looked different somehow. Less gentle and courteous. Less delicate. Even less old. He began to talk to Miss Smith in German. Miss Smith answered him in German. Miss Smith too seemed different. Less timid, less meek . . . but certainly not less anxious. It must be talking German that made them seem different, thought William.

THE OLD SOLDIER BEGAN TO TALK TO MISS SMITH IN GERMAN.

Then Miss Smith turned to him. She was the old Miss Smith, but, as it seemed, by an effort.

'You gave this gentleman the tea-cake I gave you for him, did you not?' she said.

They watched him in silence, and in the silence William was aware of a curious cold feeling travelling up and down his spine.

'Not exactly,' he admitted, deciding to make a clean breast of it. 'I ate the one my mother made an' Mrs Mason brought another an' I sold it to an ole tramp for fourpence. You see, I thought-'

'Which way did he go?' cut in the soldier sharply, and again that curious cold s.h.i.+ver crept up and down William's spine.

'Up the field path towards Marleigh,' said William.

'You little-' began the soldier fiercely, but Miss Smith shook her head at him warningly and turned to William with a graciousness and geniality that were somehow more terrifying than that momentary glimpse of anger had been.

'You have been so kind, dear boy, will you be even more kind and stay here while I and my friend just er return to the Vicarage to give Mrs Monks a little further help? It will not take long with the two of us and we will be back soon. Goodbye for the present.'

WILLIAM WENT TO THE DOOR AND LOOKED DOWN THE ROAD TOWARDS THE VICARAGE.

They had vanished before William could answer. He stood for a few moments considering the situation. He felt bewildered so much bewildered that he could even look at the treacle tart with no other emotion than bewilderment . . . He went to the door and looked down the road towards the Vicarage. It was empty. He looked up the fields towards Marleigh. Yes, there were Miss Smith and her soldier . . . They were walking quickly. Miss Smith's soldier didn't seem lame any more. They had almost reached the old barn. He returned to the canteen more bewildered than ever and gazed unseeingly at the dainties around him. His bewilderment, he felt, was natural. What surprised him was that curious feeling of fear that still possessed him. How could he be afraid of sweet timid little Miss Smith and her gentle old soldier? But the fact remained that he had been and still was. Anyway, why were they going up the hill towards Marleigh, obviously following the tramp, when Miss Smith had plainly said that they were going to the Vicarage?

MISS SMITH AND HER SOLDIER HAD ALMOST REACHED THE OLD BARN.

On an impulse William went out, closing the door behind him, and set off across the fields. There were no signs of the tramp, Miss Smith or Miss Smith's soldier. He was just pa.s.sing the old barn when he thought he heard voices inside. He stopped. The door was shut, but there was a crack in it, and he approached cautiously, applying his eye to the crack . . . At first he could hardly believe what he saw. The tramp was cowering in a corner of the barn and over him stood Miss Smith and her soldier. The soldier was only just recognisable. His face was set in lines that sent that s.h.i.+ver again up and down William's spine. And on Miss Smith's face, too, was a reflection of the cold savagery that had so transformed her soldier's.

'What have you done with it?' the soldier was saying.

'I dunno wot yer mean, guv'ner,' whined the tramp. 'I ain't done nuffin'. I ain't took nuffin'. You ain't got no right ter knock me abaht like this 'ere. I paid the little varmint fourpence fer me cake, I did. I can't 'elp it if 'e didn't oughter've sold it me. I've et it, I tell you. I can't give it you back.'

'You know what I mean,' said the soldier. 'What have you done with it?'

'Give him something else to refresh his memory,' said Miss Smith in that low vicious tone that was not Miss Smith's at all.

The soldier raised his fist and the tramp cowered down before him, whimpering, putting up his elbow to ward off the blow.

William turned and ran as fast as he could back to the village. By good luck a policeman was standing outside the general shop, idly examining a row of dusty birthday cards that had been there for the past eighteen months.

'Come quick!' gasped William. 'Miss Smith's soldier's killin' the tramp.'

The policeman turned and stared at him.

'Killin' him, I tell you,' repeated William. 'Come on quick or you'll be too late.'

'None of your tricks, now,' said the policeman, but there was something convincing about William's excitement, and, in any case, he was tired of the birthday cards . . . He accompanied William across the field to the old barn.

'Go on! Look through the crack,' urged William.

But this was, apparently, inconsistent with the dignity of the policeman. Instead, he put his shoulder to the large but insecure door and shoved it open. The scene it revealed was different from the one William had watched through the crack. The soldier was still standing over the tramp in a threatening att.i.tude, but Miss Smith was now crouching on the ground in an att.i.tude of distress. To William, it looked like a hastily-a.s.sumed att.i.tude of distress, but he realised that to the policeman, seeing it for the first time, it must appear real enough. The soldier turned to the policeman. He was Miss Smith's soldier again courteous, gentle, if a little stern.

'I'm glad you've come, officer,' he said. 'I found this brute a.s.saulting Miss Smith. I heard her cries for help as I came up the field and I've been giving him a little of what he deserved.'

MISS SMITH WAS CROUCHING IN AN ATt.i.tUDE OF DISTRESS.

'I ain't done nuffin', guv'ner,' whined the tramp. He shuffled to his feet and came into the light, revealing a black eye and a bleeding nose. 'I ain't done nuffin' an' look 'ow 'e's knocked me abaht . . .'

'You brute!' sobbed Miss Smith.

The policeman laid an ungentle hand on the tramp's shoulder.

'You come along with me,' he said sternly, and then, respectfully, to Miss Smith's soldier: 'If you'll just give me the particulars, sir . . .' He took out note-book and pencil. 'You say you found this man a.s.saulting Miss Smith?'

'Yes. a.s.saulting Miss Smith.'

The policeman began to write slowly and laboriously.

'a.s.s-aulting . . . How many s's, sir?'

'Two.'

'I gone and put three.'

He began to hunt in his pocket. William suddenly remembered his newly acquired rubber and brought it out proudly, wiping the crumbs from it.

'Here's a rubber,' he said.

The policeman took it, rubbed the offending s, then scowled suspiciously at William.

'None of your tricks!' he said. 'This ain't no rubber. It don't rub, anyway.'

'I thought it was,' said William apologetically. 'I found it in a tea-cake.'

Then, for the first time, he noticed Miss Smith and her soldier. Their eyes were fixed in frozen horror on the rubber. Their faces had turned a greenish white. The policeman was still examining the rubber.

'Seems to have a sort of cap on,' he said.

He took the cap off and pulled out a small roll of paper. Then the strangest event of the whole afternoon happened. For the tramp was no longer a tramp, except in appearance. He sprang at Miss Smith's soldier and pinned him in an expert grip from behind.

THE TRAMP SPRANG AT MISS SMITH'S SOLDIER.

'Get the woman, Constable,' he said. 'Don't let her go, whatever you do . . . And you,' to William, 'cut down to the police station and tell them to send a car at once. My name's Finch. They know me . . .'

The policeman was no less bewildered than William, but he recognised the voice of Authority when he heard it and sprang to Miss Smith, who fought and bit and scratched with unexpected ferocity before she was finally mastered. William, also recognising the voice of Authority, cut down to the police station . . .

It turned out the Frulein Schmitt did not, after all, love the 'country of her adoption'. She was, in fact, a fanatical n.a.z.i agent who had come over among the refugees in order to carry on the work of espionage. Her soldier had not fought in the last war or in any other war. He was not even lame. He was the son of German parents who, though naturalised, had worked for the 'Fatherland' ever since they came to England. It turned out that Miss Smith, hovering attentively over the airmen at the canteen while they ate their scrambled eggs or beans on toast, picked up a good many items of news that were of interest to the Fhrer's representatives. These, together with other items that she picked up from the conversation of the officers who came to tea or dinner at the Vicarage, were carefully recorded in code, packed into a small asbestos container, in shape resembling a rubber, and baked into the 'tea-cake' for which her 'soldier' called each week. Authority had for some time suspected Frulein Schmitt of pro-enemy activity but could prove nothing. She wrote no letters and received no letters. She never left the neighbourhood and seemed to have no friends among the other refugees. It was Mrs Mason's article that had first given Mr Finch (of what is known as the Secret Service) the idea. There might be nothing in this tea-cake business, of course, but it was worth investigating. A stranger visiting the village would have caused comment and put Frulein Schmitt on her guard. An old tramp, wandering through the village and cadging food at the canteen, would rouse no interest. He was lucky, of course, to find William there . . .

'Why didn't you biff him one while he was knocking you about?' asked William when he heard the story. 'I bet you could have done.'

Mr Finch grinned.

'I could have done, my boy, and, I can tell you, I wanted to, but I hadn't got hold of anything.'

'You mean you hadn't got a clue?' said William, remembering his detective stories.

'I mean I hadn't got a clue,' said Mr Finch. 'I felt that, if I held on, something might slip out that would give it to me.'

'I gave it you,' said William proudly.

'You did, my boy, and I'm grateful to you . . . Good thing the bobby couldn't spell, eh?'

The news had already sped round the village. William walked homewards with a rollicking swagger. He would be famous now, he thought, for the rest of his life . . . But he was too late. Already Mrs Mason was typing her latest article: 'How I Trapped a German Spy'.

CHAPTER 10.

THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS.

'WE'VE gotter get somethin' ready for Vict'ry,' said William. 'Everyone else is doin' somethin'.'