A couple of weeks went by.
The mud I was kneeling in soaked through my pants-legs, wetting my knees and shins. The rough wood filed skin off my face every time I breathed. My mouth was as dry as my knees were wet, because I was breathing through it for silence.
An automobile came around the bend, headed for the city. I heard the soldier grunt softly, heard the click of his gun as he cocked it. The car came abreast, went on. The soldier blew out his breath and started scratching himself and humming again.
Another couple of weeks passed.
Men’s voices came through the rain, barely audible, louder, quite clear. Four soldiers in sheepskin coats and hats walked down the road the way we had come, their voices presently shrinking into silence as they disappeared around the curve.
In the distance an automobile horn barked two ugly notes. The soldier grunted—a grunt that said clearly: “Here it is.” His feet slopped in the mud, and the lumber pile creaked under his weight. I couldn’t see what he was up to.
White light danced around the bend in the road, and an automobile came into view—a high-powered car going cityward with a speed that paid no attention to the wet slipperiness of the road. Rain and night and speed blurred its two occupants, who were in the front seat.
Over my head a heavy revolver roared. The soldier was working. The speeding car swayed crazily along the wet cement, its brakes screaming.
When the sixth shot told me the nickel-plated gun was probably empty, I jumped out of my hollow.
The soldier was leaning over the lumber pile, his gun still pointing at the skidding car while he peered through the rain.
He turned as I saw him, swung the gun around to me, snarled an order I couldn’t understand. I was betting the gun was empty. I raised both hands high over my head, made an astonished face, and kicked him in the belly.
He folded over on me, wrapping himself around my leg. We both went down. I was underneath, but his head was against my thigh. His cap fell off. I caught his hair with both hands and yanked myself into a sitting position. His teeth went into my leg. I called him disagreeable things and put my thumbs in the hollows under his ears. It didn’t take much pressure to teach him that he oughtn’t to bite people. When he lifted his face to howl, I put my right fist in it, pulling him into the punch with my left hand in his hair. It was a nice solid sock.
I pushed him off my leg, got up, took a handful of his coat collar, and dragged him out into the road.
IV
Introductions
White light poured over us. Squinting into it, I saw the automobile standing down the road, its spotlight turned on me and my sparring partner. A big man in green and gold came into the light—the florid officer who had been one of Grantham’s companions in the restaurant. An automatic was in one of his hands.
He strode over to us, stiff-legged in his high boots, ignored the soldier on the ground, and examined me carefully with sharp little dark eyes.
“British?” he asked.
“American.”
He bit a corner of his mustache and said meaninglessly:
“Yes, that is better.”
His English was guttural, with a German accent.
Lionel Grantham came from the car to us. His face wasn’t as pink as it had been.
“What is it?” he asked the officer, but he looked at me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I took a stroll after dinner and got mixed up on my directions. Finding myself out here, I decided I was headed the wrong way. When I turned around to go back I saw this fellow duck behind the lumber pile. He had a gun in his hand. I took him for a stickup, so I played Indian on him. Just as I got to him he jumped up and began spraying you people. I reached him in time to spoil his aim. Friend of yours?”
“You’re an American,” the boy said. “I’m Lionel Grantham. This is Colonel Einarson. We’re very grateful to you.” He screwed up his forehead and looked at Einarson. “What do you think of it?”
The officer shrugged his shoulders, growled, “One of my children—we’ll see,” and kicked the ribs of the man on the ground.
The kick brought the soldier to life. He sat up, rolled over on hands and knees, and began a broken, long-winded entreaty, plucking at the Colonel’s tunic with dirty hands.
“Ach!” Einarson knocked the hands down with a tap of pistol barrel across knuckles, looked with disgust at the muddy marks on his tunic, and growled an order.
The soldier jumped to his feet, stood at attention, got another order, did an about-face, and marched to the automobile. Colonel Einarson strode stiff-legged behind him, holding his automatic to the man’s back. Grantham put a hand on my arm.
“Come along,” he said. “We’ll thank you properly and get better acquainted after we’ve taken care of this fellow.”
Colonel Einarson got into the driver’s seat, with the soldier beside him. Grantham waited while I found the soldier’s revolver. Then we got into the rear seat. The officer looked doubtfully at me out of his eye-corners, but said nothing. He drove the car back the way it had come. He liked speed, and we hadn’t far to go. By the time we were settled in our seats the car was whisking us through a gateway in a high stone wall, with a sentry on each side presenting arms. We did a sliding half-circle into a branching driveway and jerked to a standstill
