"That I will not--not now," she retorted, with a toss of the head. "I'll find somebody to tell my story to who does not have to be asked.  Also, I want information.  I managed to find out what time to ring the bell to turn the hands to, and that is about all.  I don't understand the ridiculous speech of your people.  What time do they knock off?"

"At eleven--go on again at one."

"That will do, thank you.  And now, where do you keep the key to the provisions?  I want to feed my men."

"Your men!" he gasped.  "On tinned goods!  No, no.  Let them go out and eat with my boys."

Her eyes flashed as on the day before, and he saw again the imperative expression on her face.

"That I won't; my men are MEN.  I've been out to your miserable barracks and watched them eat.  Faugh!  Potatoes!  Nothing but potatoes!  No salt!  Nothing!  Only potatoes!  I may have been mistaken, but I thought I understood them to say that that was all they ever got to eat.  Two meals a day and every day in the week?"

He nodded.

"Well, my men wouldn't stand that for a single day, much less a whole week.  Where is the key?"

"Hanging on that clothes-hook under the clock."

He gave it easily enough, but as she was reaching down the key she heard him say:

"Fancy niggers and tinned provisions."

This time she really was angry.  The blood was in her cheeks as she turned on him.