Lost trumpet

THE LOST TRUMPET
8?
sticking up for their rights and to hell with capital¬
ists and employers—in the case in question, of
course, always himself. And they’re generally so
staggered that they treat him and their work with
scrupulous respect. Or they’re so enthusiastic at
finding themselves regarded as human beings that
they insist on working overtime—and vexing Marrot
into a frenzy. Well, well, it’s a mixed world.”
Georgios spread our breakfast on a camp table
unearthed from the lorry. It was crisp and fresh
and admirably cooked, as though he must have
arisen at two o’clock in the morning to set about
the work. Yet he had done no such thing. Huebsch,
eating immensely, rumbled forth, as if absent-
mindedly, a revealing remark.
“Fine breakfast, Georgios. How you managed
both to attend to it and carry Mr. Marrot an early
cup of tea is beyond me.”
Georgios retired in confusion. Marrot himself
coloured a trifle. Already, as I was to find, he was
hopelessly popular with labourers and cook alike.
He spread out the map towards Huebsch and myself,
brusquely.
“I’ll take an observation and then Saloney and
I’ll do the survey while you dig up the camp,
Huebsch. I’ve ringed round the probable area in
pencil.” He raised inquiring brows towards me.
“Can you sketch ?”
“I was once the Maps Officer of General Deniken.”
“Oh, were you ? The brigand who raided the
soviets in South Russia ?”