“Oh, I shall, I am sure,” Dave said absent-mindedly. He was not thinking of the boots. His eyes were once more upon the young cobbler in the far corner. As before, his face hidden, he was bent low over his work. “I ’opes you’ve ’ad a pleasant afternoon,” said old John. “Oh! Very!” said Dave. “If he only knew,” he murmured with a low laugh after he had left the shop. Across the street was the village Pub. Its sign proclaimed it to be Ye Old Angel Inn. How long did an angel have to live in order to be considered really old, Dave asked himself whimsically. He had thought of angels as being ageless. Perhaps there weren’t any angels after all. He had once seen a picture of a French war plane going down in flames, and of two angels waiting, with hands crossed, to catch the unhappy pilot as he fell. “Shall I ever be in need of two angels?” he asked himself dreamily. He crossed the street to enter Ye Old Angel Inn. He liked these English Pubs. They were village clubs. There was about them a pleasant aroma of beef roasting over an open fire, of hot toddy and strange English tobacco. He could, he thought, stand for one more cup of coffee. The weather had suddenly turned cloudy, damp and cold. The coffee was good. He lingered over it, then ordered a second cup. As he sat there he heard voices. Two villagers sat at a table in the corner drinking hot toddy. “I’m tellin’ ye now, James,” one voice rose sharply, “’e’s nothin’ more nor less than a bloomin’ Jerry. ’E’s a spy, that ’e is.” “Aw now, Danny,” the other admonished, “you know what old John told you ’e is. ’E’s ’Ollander, no more, nor no less. ’Is papers they is all in horder.” “I know. I know,” Danny agreed petulantly. “But that don’t make it so. You know as well as I know ’ow easy as nothin’ it is fer a Jerry to git papers fixed to suit ’is own self. “Now look, Jimmy.” Danny’s voice dropped. “Ye mind the last war. There were our castle, Warmington Castle, as fine an hedifice as there be in all Hengland. An’ what ’appens? Ramsey, over at the farm, ’e ’ires ’imself a Jerry, a prisoner of war ’e was. ’e treats ’im like a long-lost brother, Ramsey does. An’ what ’appens? I asks you, what ’appens?” “It weren’t never proved that it were this Jerry that signaled to the bloomin’ airplane that come over an’ blasted the castle,” James protested. “I know—I know. But who would doubt it?” And so the argument ended. Dave finished his coffee, then wandered out into the chill of falling night. Danny and James had given him fresh food for serious thought. Cherry was booked for a return to her subway studio on the following evening. Dave spent the greater part of that day teaching her a new song. He knew the tune and could pick it out for her on the piano. By great good fortune he found the words written out in longhand on a scrap of paper in his Sunday clothes.