Valetta Joe was in his shop, distributing a batch of newly-baked bread
to a number of itinerant vendors, each bound to retail the loaves in
the various camps.
McKay waited until the place was clear, then accosted the baker
sharply.
"What was the good of your sending that old numbskull to me?"
"He give you letter. You not understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand; but I want to be certain it is true."
"When Joe tell lies? You believe him before; if you like, believe him
again."
"But can't you tell me more about it? How many troops have the
Russians collected? Since when? What do they mean to do?"
"You ask Russian general, not me; I only know what I hear."
"But it would be possible to tell, from the position of the enemy,
something of their intentions. I could directly if I saw them."
"Then why you not go and look for yourself?" asked Joe, carelessly;
but there was a glitter in his eyes which gave a deep meaning to the
simple question.
"Why not?" said McKay, whom the look had escaped. "It is well worth
the risk."
"I'll help you, if you like," went on Joe, with the same outwardly
unconcerned manner.
"Can you? How?"
"Very easy to pass lines. You put on Tartar clothes same as that old
man go to you to-day. He live near Tchorgaun; he take you right into
middle of Russian camp.
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