At this juncture one of the men in field-grey seized William by the collar and proceeded to turn out his pockets—extracting from their recesses a purse, a pipe, a handkerchief, a fountain pen, and a green-covered Cook’s ticket. He snapped back the elastic on the Cook’s ticket, and turned the leaves that remained for the journey home.
“London,” he ejaculated suddenly, pronouncing the vowels in un-English fashion as O’s.
“London!” his companion echoed him—and then, as if moved by a common impulse, they called on the name of Heinz.
There was an answering hail from the farmhouse kitchen, whence issued promptly a fattish young man with a mug in his hand, and a helmet tilted on his nose. With him the assailants of William and Griselda entered into rapid and throaty explanations; whereat Heinz nodded assentingly as he advanced down the garden path to the gate, surveying the captives with interest and a pair of little pig’s-eyes. Having reached the gate he leaned over it, mug in hand, and looked down at William and Griselda.
“English,” he said in a voice that was thicker than it should have been at so early an hour of the morning; “English—you come from London? … I have been two years in London; that is why I speak English. I was with a hairdresser in the Harrow Road two years; and I know also the Strand and the Angel and Buckingham Palace and the Elephant.” (He was plainly proud of his acquaintance with London topography.) “All of them I know, and when we arrive in London I shall show them all to my friends.” He waved his hand vaguely and amiably to indicate his grey-clad companions. “You come from London, but you shall not go back there, because you are now our prisoners. I drink your damn bad health and the damn bad health of your country and the damn bad health of your king.”
He suited the action to the word and drained his mug; and having drained it till it stood upright upon his nose, proceeded to throw it over his shoulder to shatter on the brick path. Whether from natural good temper or the cheering effect of potations his face was wreathed in an amiable smile as he crossed his arms on the bar of the gate and continued to address his audience—
“We shall take you to our officer and you will be prisoners, and if you are spies you will be shot.”
There was something so impossible about the announcement that William and Griselda felt their courage return with a rush. Moreover, though the words of Heinz were threatening the aspect of Heinz was not; his fat young face with its expansive and slightly inebriated smile was ridiculous rather than terrifying, even under the brim of a helmet. William, thankful for the English acquired during the two years’ hairdressing in the Harrow Road, admonished him with a firmness intended to sober and dismay.
“This is not a time for silly jokes. I am afraid that you do not realize the seriousness of the situation. I shall feel it my duty to make a full report to your superiors—when you will find it is no laughing matter. My wife and I, proceeding quietly to the station, have been grossly and violently assaulted by your two companions. We gave them no provocation, and the attack was entirely uncalled for. I repeat, I shall feel it my duty to report their conduct in the very strongest terms.”
He felt as he spoke that the reproof would have carried more weight had it been delivered in a standing position; but his head still reeled from the stinging cuff it had received and he felt safer where he was—on the ground. It annoyed him that the only apparent effect of his words upon Heinz was a widening of his already wide and owlish smile.
“Oh, you’ll report their conduct, will you?” he repeated pleasantly and thickly. “And who will you report it to, old son?”
William stiffened at the familiarity, and the tone of his reply was even colder and more dignified than that of the original rebuke.
“To the nearest police authority; I shall not leave Belgium until my complaint has been attended to. If necessary I shall apply for redress to the British Consul in Brussels.”
The expansive smile on the face of Heinz was suddenly ousted by an expression of infinite astonishment. His fat chin dropped, his little eyes widened, and he pushed back his helmet, that he might stare the better at William.
“Say it again,” he demanded—slowly and as if doubtful of his ears, “You shall apply to the British Consul—the British Consul at Brussels?”
“Certainly,” William assured him firmly; and Griselda echoed “Certainly.” The threat they judged had made the desired impression, for so blank and disturbed was the countenance of Heinz that his two companions broke into guttural questioning. The former hairdresser checked them with a gesture and addressed himself once more to William.
“I think,” he announced, “you are balmy on the crumpet, both of you. Balmy,” he repeated, staring from one to the other and apparently sobered by the shock of his own astonishment. Suddenly a gleam of intelligence lit up his little pig’s-eyes—he leaned yet further over the gate, pointed a finger and queried—
“You do not read the newspapers?”
“As a rule I do,” William informed him, “but we have not seen any lately—not since we left England.”
“And how long is it since you left England?”
William told him it was over three weeks.
“Three weeks,” the other repeated, “three weeks without newspapers … and I think you do not speak French, eh?”
“My wife,” William answered, “understands it—a little. But we neither of us speak it.” His manner was pardonably irritated, and if he had not judged it imprudent he would have refused point-blank to answer this purposeless catechism. Nor was his pardonable irritation lessened when amusement once more
