"I think he means we must keep some of this bread for dinner."
A dozen faces were turned in his direction, and nearly as many voices answered, "Merci, mon officier," with smiles of acknowledgment.
Bob's notice and help seemed to be received by these forlorn and dispirited Frenchmen with the liveliest pleasure, and evidently they were glad enough of a superior to question, for after a few moments of whispered conversation, one of them approached Bob and, squatting down beside him, said respectfully:
"May I make an inquiry, mon officier?"
Bob nodded, looking into the man's tired face and at the dirty bandage wound about his throat.
"Can you tell us where we are going?" asked the soldier doubtfully. "Is it to Germany?"
"I don't know which part, but it is certainly Germany," Bob responded. "After these long hours we must be well inside the German border. I suppose we shall be taken to the nearest prison camp."
The soldier gave a nod of agreement, rising to rejoin his comrades with a murmur of thanks, but Bob held him back. "What is the matter there?" he asked, pointing to the man's throat.
"Only a slight wound. It is not very painful," said the Frenchman, smiling and touching the bandage cautiously as he spoke.