At about the time the first of them reached the other building, a soldier neared Bob's door carrying a pail in one hand and a smoking dish in the other. Bob's mouth watered at sight of it, and he quickly made way for the man, who deposited the basin of what appeared to be coffee on the table, the pail of water on the floor, and drew from under his arm a brown loaf of bread, which he put down beside the coffee.
"Zwei tage," he remarked, pointing to it with a serious air.
Zwei Bob knew, but two what? He could not think what tage was. He remembered the fire though, and said hastily to the soldier, who had already turned to go, "More wood."
The man looked uncertain, bowed, and went out. Bob sat down to his breakfast, drinking the odd-tasting substitute for coffee without criticism. It was at least hot and comforting, and a big piece wrenched from one end of the loaf made him feel another man. Suddenly, the meaning of tage came to him. Of course—days—"two days." That was what the soldier had said. He had pointed to the bread, which was evidently supposed to last for that length of time. The thought was not very cheering unless the rest of his diet was forthcoming. He had observed a very marked difference in his treatment as an officer from that accorded to the enlisted men who were prisoners. This distinction, Bob surmised, was made more for the benefit of the German soldiery, whose respect for an officer must be maintained at any cost, than for a more generous reason. But he was evidently to be treated with outward marks of civility, though his comforts, he foresaw, would be scarce enough, unless he could open communication with some outside means of supply.
He could easily have eaten half the loaf of bread then and there, but the soldier's words had made an impression, and he got up without taking another bite. His door was still unlocked and he stood on the threshold, trying to get some warmth from the rays of the sun, for his fire had not been replenished. The wire fence, fully ten feet high and barbed at the top, ran along the front of the barrack at a distance of about a dozen steps from it, the only break being the wire lane extending to the open yard in the center. Down this lane a sentry walked, commanding a fine view of both sides of the yard. A short distance to the left another sentry's beat began, in front of the adjoining barrack.
At about a hundred feet to the right and left of Bob's door the wire curved suddenly in to the barrack wall, leaving only that length for a walk, and enclosing about five doors, so far as he could see down the line. One of these doors opened into the room next his, where he had heard the subdued sounds of the early morning, and as he stood there shivering, fastening his coat before trying a walk up the little inclosure in the biting wind, he became aware that his neighbor was also standing on his own threshold.
The French soldiers were just returning from across the yard with their ration, hurrying back to shelter with the steaming bowls, and Bob could see that the man was watching them, absorbed and motionless. Before he caught more than a glimpse of the tall figure he had gone back into his room. Bob returned likewise for his helmet, thinking unpleasant things of the soldier who was leaving him to freeze for want of a little wood, when a footstep caused him to turn expectantly. Instead of the stolid German orderly, he saw an erect, distinguished looking man in the faded blue uniform of a French infantry Captain. He stood just outside the door, and as Bob turned he bowed and extended his hand, a bright smile lighting up his pale, thin face.
"I am your neighbor, Monsieur the Lieutenant," he said, in correct if rather painstaking English.
Bob stepped out and shook his hand warmly. How eagerly he welcomed the company of this unfortunate Frenchman was told by his face and the grip of his fingers before he said, "I'm very glad to see you. Can't you come in?"