(Words in italics should be read as not spoken in English. They are spoken in German, or, in LeBeau's case, French... or in Newkirk's case, they're thought)

The next day, under Langenscheidt's watchful eye, Newkirk, Carter, and LeBeau arrived at the hop farm. Beyond an old stone farmhouse, at least a dozen green rows of towering bines stretched 20 feet into the air, thick with hops ready for harvest.

The gray-haired farmer, at the edge of his fields, waved to Langenscheidt, who led the men to him.

He looked the men over, disappointment showing on his face. "I asked for strong men. That one is very small, and the other two are thin."

"I apologize. They are prisoners, and rations are not plentiful," Langenscheidt said.

The farmer sighed. "I'll take what I can get. I just had inspectors from the farm labor bureau here ordering me to hire POWs to hurry along this harvest. I will show them how to pick," he told the guard.

The old man started toward the bines, but he didn't get a chance to demonstrate. Newkirk raised up a hand, then patted his chest twice, as if to say, "Allow me." He plucked off a cone, squeezed it between his fingers, then held it out under his friends' noses.

"This one here is ripe," he pronounced. "See how it springs back? You pick these, and not the leaves." He sniffed it and looked satisfied, then rolled it next to his ear as it made a clicking sound.

"Put this one in charge. He knows what he's doing," the farmer said, nodding approvingly. He toddled off toward the farmhouse.

"Well," Newkirk said, rolling up his sleeves, "let's get to work, chaps. If you have any questions—or come across anything interesting—you ask ol' Peter Newkirk."

LeBeau frowned. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

Newkirk winked. "Well, you heard the boss. I know what I'm doing. It's like ridin' a bike. You never forget. Come on, you lot. Let's pick those bines before the measurer turns up."

"Who's the measurer?" Carter asked.

Newkirk didn't bother to answer. He gestured to LeBeau and Carter to get started, and observed what they were doing, making small corrections in their technique as they went along.

"No leaves. No strings," he said, pulling the offending materials from the baskets. "And don't leave ripe cones on the ground."

LeBeau grumbled. Carter just smiled and picked up the cones.

"Look out for anything red like apples," Newkirk whispered as he went back to his task.

As the hours passed, all three men were worked quickly, pulling down the hop bines and plucking the flowers from the shoots. The day was growing warmer, and they stripped off their shirts. The sun warmed their shoulders and the spicy scent of the hops lulled them into a quiet, companionable mood.

The scent was different from English hops, Newkirk was thinking. More perfume and mint than the herbal, green aroma he knew from childhood days.

The breeze on his face, the sweet scent of ripe hops mingling with the earth—it took him back to laughter and singing among the pickers, the freedom of a long day's work under the wide sky, a world alive with color. Not the grim grayness of a POW camp.

Now the sun was dancing on the leaves, and suddenly Newkirk's mind was flooded with memories of how the annual journey to Kent was all joy and anticipation, and an escape from the bustle, soot, and despair of London's rough streets. It was a freedom he hadn't realized he missed so deeply until now.

He had to stop ruminating, so he concentrated on his hands, which worked with practiced ease. He began whistling softly, smiling at the nonsensical words of the hoppers' song from his boyhood:

With a tee-I-ay, tee-I-ay, tee-I-ee-I-ay

A grumble from LeBeau shook him out of his reverie. "Why are you, of all people, acting so cheerful? It's too hot out. These hops are prickly, and my hands are cut to ribbons!" He held them up for Newkirk's inspection.

Newkirk frowned sympathetically. "You're handling it all wrong, mate. Just pick the cones and don't mess about with the leaves. Here, let me show you. You've got to be gentle with the bines—treat them like you would treat a soufflé."

"These hands are meant for stirring, not scraping!"

"I know it's not easy, mate. Just take your time. You'll get the hang of it. We've only got to work until we find out whatever it is that Falcon left for us." Newkirk looked around, hoping he hadn't said that too loud.

LeBeau noticed the gaffe and ribbed him. "You're turning into Carter, you know that?"

"Speaking of whom," Newkirk said, nudging LeBeau. They watched in amazement as Carter stumbled and entangled himself in a bine. Within seconds, his arms were flailing about and he looked like he was fighting an octopus.

"Hey, guys! Help a buddy out here! This thing's got me!" Carter called out.

Newkirk and LeBeau dissolved into laughter and got to work untangling him.

ooo

Returning to his work, Newkirk found his rhythm again and forced himself not to daydream. He took a few moments to inspect the rows where LeBeau and Carter had been working to make sure no one had missed some apples or whatever else it was they were looking for. His sharp eyes scanned the plants for anything out of place. There was nothing untoward, so he went back to picking.

Then, a few minutes along, he spotted something—a bine tied with an odd knot and secured with a thin apple-red ribbon. It was small and subtle, and it was not the way hops were usually handled.

Newkirk's instincts kicked in. He leaned in, pretending to examine the long, winding shoots more closely. Carefully, he untwisted the knot, and there, hidden within the thick leaves was a small packet wrapped in oilcloth. He stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers, acting casual as he moved on to the next plant.

When the guard wasn't looking, Newkirk whispered to Carter, "Found something."

"What is it?" Carter whispered back.

"Not sure yet, but it wasn't no hops. We ought to be leaving soon." He looked down the rows of bines, surprised at how much work they'd done. "We've just another row or two to go, any road."

"Maybe not that long," LeBeau said, sidling up to them. Langenscheidt was approaching with the farmer, and they both were smiling.

"Men, the farmer says you can finish up now," Langenscheidt said. "There is no more room for drying hops in die Hopfendarre."

"What's a hop-fin-da-ra?" Carter asked.

"An oast house," Newkirk replied.

"Oh, that clears it up. OK, I'll ask. What's an oast house?"

"It must be un four à houblon," LeBeau said.

"You guys are really, really not helping," Carter said.

Author's Note: A Hopfendarre is a building that houses a kiln for drying out hops. Newkirk and LeBeau are using their respective languages' terms for the same thing. Oast houses are a distinctive feature of the Kent countryside—worth googling!