For a little it looked as
though he were in sight of the goal. Then Mademoiselle explained. They
were _desolees_, but the _sales Boches_ had stolen all the beds, and
Madame would not let the bare rooms to _Messieurs les Anglais_. It
would not be _convenable_ when they had no beds.
"No beds!" Madame appealed to the skylight as witness, and we looked
at each other. It was getting late and the others would have rustled
all the best bivvies by now. John had another brain-wave.
"Let's pantomime it. They always understand pantomime. There's no use
_saying_ we've got beds--not when George has to say it. We'll show
them."
Earnestly we pantomimed stretcher beds--our own stretcher beds--and
reposeful slumber thereon. "_Mon Dieu!_" cried Mademoiselle,
retreating in haste. "No beds," repeated Madame, unconvinced and
unafraid.
"She means that she doesn't want to have us," said John in cold
despair.
"She'd be a fool if she did now," answered Colin grimly. "Let's get
out of this."
And then John had a third brain-wave. He ordered George on guard, and
descended with Colin in search of the concrete proof of our sanity.
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