There was my stout lady, like a faithful watch-dog, at the bottom of the ladder, while the young German surgeon, white with anger, was endeavouring to come up it.
Several of the German soldiers who had recovered from their prostration were sitting about on the kitchen floor and watching the quarrel with stolid, but attentive, faces.
The landlord was nowhere to be seen.
“There is no liquor there,” said the woman.
“I do not want liquor; I want hay or straw for these men to lie upon. Why should they lie on the bricks when there is straw overhead?”
“There is no straw.”
“What is up there?”
“Empty bottles.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”