“Speak French,” he commanded Fatty.
“Spikky-tarly-yondle-fitty-toomar,” answered Fatty at once.
“Never heard a language like that before,” said the red-faced man. “The boy looks foreign enough. Wonder where he comes from. We’ll have to find out how he got here.” He turned to Fatty again, and addressed him first in English and then in French, then in German, and then in a fourth language Fatty had never heard.
“Spikky-tarly-yondle,” said Fatty, and waggled his hands about just like his French master at school.
The pale-faced man spoke to his companion. “I believe he’s foxing,” he said in a low voice that Fatty could not hear. “He’s just pretending. I’ll soon make him talk his own language. Watch me.”
He suddenly bent over Fatty, took hold of his left arm, dragged it behind him and twisted it. Fatty let out an agonized yell. “Let go, you beast! You’re hurting me!”
“Aha!” said the pale-faced man. “So you can talk English, can you? Very interesting. Now - what about talking a little more, and telling us who you are and how you came here.”
Fatty nursed his twisted arm, feeling rather alarmed. He was very angry with himself for falling asleep and getting so easily caught. He looked sulkily at the man and said nothing.
“Ah! - he wants a little more coaxing,” said the pale-faced man, smiling with his thin lips and showing long yellow teeth. “Shall we twist your other arm, boy?”
He took hold of Fatty’s right arm. Fatty decided to talk. He wouldn’t give much away more than he could help.