Albert, with his nerves on edge, began to find the strain rather severe.
The next Saturday evening, when Joe came in more black-browed than ever,
he watched him, determined to have it out with him.
When the boy went upstairs to bed, the corporal followed him. He closed
the door behind him carefully, sat on the bed and watched the younger man
undressing. And for once he spoke in a natural voice, neither chaffing
nor commanding.
'What's gone wrong, boy?'
Joe stopped a moment as if he had been shot. Then he went on unwinding
his puttees, and did not answer or look up.
'You can hear, can't you?' said Albert, nettled.
'Yes, I can hear,' said Joe, stooping over his puttees till his face was
purple.
'Then why don't you answer?'
Joe sat up. He gave a long, sideways look at the corporal. Then he lifted
his eyes and stared at a crack in the ceiling.
The corporal watched these movements shrewdly.
'And _then_ what?' he asked, ironically.
Again Joe turned and stared him in the face. The corporal smiled very
slightly, but kindly.
'There'll be murder done one of these days,' said Joe, in a quiet,
unimpassioned voice.
'So long as it's by daylight--' replied Albert. Then he went over, sat
down by Joe, put his hand on his shoulder affectionately, and continued,
'What is it, boy? What's gone wrong? You can trust me, can't you?'
Joe turned and looked curiously at the face so near to his.
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