“Good evening,” said Patsy pleasantly.  “Is Maurie within?”

“Henri is within,” answered Clarette with a fierce scowl, “and he is going to stay within.”

“But we have need of his services,” said Ajo sternly, “and the man is in our employ and under contract to obey us.”

“I also need his services,” retorted Clarette, “and I made a contract with him before you did, as my marriage papers will prove.”

The little boy and girl had now crowded into the doorway on either side of their mother, clinging to her skirts while they “made faces” at the Americans.  Clarette turned to drive the children away and in the act allowed Patsy and Ajo to glance past her into the hut.

There stood little Maurie, sleeves rolled above his elbows, bending over a battered dishpan where he was washing a mess of cracked and broken pottery.  He met their gaze with a despairing countenance and a gesture of appeal that scattered a spray of suds from big wet fingers.  Next moment Clarette had filled the doorway again.

“You may as well go away,” said the woman harshly.

Patsy stood irresolute.

“Have you money to pay the rent and to provide food and clothing?” she presently asked.

“I have found a few francs in Henri’s pockets,” was the surly reply.

“And when they are gone?”

Clarette gave a shrug.

“When they are gone we shall not starve,” she said.  “There is plenty of charity for the Belgians these days.  One has but to ask, and someone gives.”

“Then you will not let us have Maurie?”

“No, mademoiselle.”  Then she unbent a little and added:  “If my husband goes to you, they will be sure to catch him some day, and when they catch him they will shoot him.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know?”

“No.”

Clarette smiled grimly.

“When Henri escapes me, he always gets himself into trouble.  He is not so very bad, but he is careless—­and foolish.  He tries to help the Germans and the French at the same time, to be accommodating, and so both have conceived a desire to shoot him.  Well; when they shoot him he can no longer earn money to support me and his children.”

“Are they really his children?” inquired young Jones.

“Who else may claim them, monsieur?”

“I thought they were the children of your first husband, the blacksmith.”

Clarette glared at him, with lowering brow.

“Blacksmith?  Pah!  I have no husband but Henri, and heaven forsook me when I married him.”

“Come, Patsy,” said Ajo to his companion, “our errand here is hopeless.  And—­perhaps Clarette is right.”

They made their way back to the launch in silence.  Patsy was quite disappointed in Maurie.  He had so many admirable qualities that it was a shame he could be so untruthful and unreliable.

As time passed on the monotony that followed their first exciting experiences grew upon them and became oppressive.  December weather in Flanders brought cutting winds from off the North Sea and often there were flurries of snow in the air.  They had steam heat inside the ship but the deck was no longer a practical lounging place.