The old man bent and spoke to the child.
'Would you like to come with us?' he said in French.
The little boy said something in another language.
Howard said: 'Sprechen sie Deutsch?'
That was the limit of the German that he could recall at the moment, but it drew no response.
He straightened up, heavy with new responsibility.
'We'll take him with us,' he said quietly.
'If we leave him here they'll probably end by killing him.'
'If we don't get a move on,' said the corporal, 'the bloody Jerries will be here and kill the lot of us.'
Howard picked up the spy, who suffered that in silence; they hurried to the lorry.
The child smelt and was plainly verminous; the old man turned his face away in nausea.
Perhaps in Angerville there would be nuns who would take charge of him.
They might take Pierre, too, though Pierre was so little bother that the old man didn't mind about him much.
They put the children in the workshop; Howard got in with them and the corporal got into the front seat by the driver.
The big truck moved across the road from Paris and out on the road to Angerville, seventeen miles away.
'If we don't get some juice at Angerville,' the driver said, 'we'll be bloody well sunk.'
In the van, crouched down beside the lathe with the children huddled round him, the old man pulled out a sticky bundle of his chocolate.
He broke off five pieces for the children; as soon as the German spy realised what it was he stretched out a filthy paw and said something unintelligible.
He ate it greedily and stretched out his hand for more.
'You wait a bit.'
The old man gave the chocolate to the other children.
Pierre whispered: 'Merci, monsieur.'
La petite Rose leaned down to him.
'After supper, Pierre?' she said.
'Shall monsieur keep it for you to have after supper?
The little boy whispered: 'Only on Sunday.
On Sunday I may have chocolate after supper.
Is today Sunday?'
The old man said: 'I'm not quite sure what day it is.
But I don't think your mother will mind if you have chocolate after supper tonight.
I'll put it away and you can have it then.'
He rummaged round and produced one of the thick, hard biscuits that he had bought in the morning, and with some difficulty broke it in two; he offered one half to the dirty little boy in the smock.
The child took it and ate it ravenously.
Rose scolded at him in French: 'Is that the way to eat?
A little pig would eat more delicately - yes, truly, I say -a little pig.
You should thank monsieur, too.'
The child stared at her, not understanding why she was scolding him.
She said: 'Have you not been taught how to behave?
You should say like this' - she swung round and bowed to Howard - 'Je vous remercie, monsieur.'
Her words passed him by, but the pantomime was evident.
He looked confused.
'Dank, Mijnheer,' he said awkwardly.
'Dank u wel.'
Howard stared at him, perplexed.
It was a northern language, but not German.
It might, he thought, be Flemish or Walloon, or even Dutch.
In any case, it mattered very little; he himself knew no word of any of those languages.
They drove on at a good pace through the hot afternoon.
The hatch to the driver's compartment was open; from time to time the old man leaned forward and looked through between the two men at the road ahead of them.
It was suspiciously clear.