[12] Man.
[13] But.
[14] My dear fellow.
CHAPTER XIV
Kultur in a Train
My new custodian was a fat, easy-going German, whom I found possessed some of the most radical of revolutionary ideas, but like a vast number of his comrades, too apathetic to trouble about carrying them out. We passed a little display of wealth in the form of a smartly dressed gentleman, lady, child and poodle dog, strolling down the street.
“They’re the bandits!” said my guard, nudging me. “They eat the butter and eggs. We have to fight on dry bread and potatoes!”
It was through him, too, that I first learned of Marshal Foch’s great offensive, though it was too young as yet to bring to us prisoners the Great Hope. We were seated in the corner of a Gastwirtschaft talking over glasses of wine (for which he paid). The gramophone was playing: “Puppchen, du bist mein Augenschatz,” or the German “Tipperary.” He leaned over as if about to divulge a great secret.
“Deutschland ist kaput!”[15]
“Was?” I asked, astonished at the admission, for the German newspapers had never been more optimistic than during the last month.
“Deutschland ist kaput—kaput,” he repeated, “absolutely tot![16] The soldiers will turn against the bandits soon, for they are starving! The food is finished—absolutely finished. We have nichts—nichts—nichts!”[17] and he put his thumbs together and jerked them quickly apart as though breaking a string.