Bob could not help getting a little huffy at that.
“You’d be a mighty poor newspaper man,” he said, “if you hadn’t heard something about all of those things by this time. But of course if you don’t want to hear the rest of this, why all right.”
“Shut up, Buck,” said Ned, himself smothering a smile, for Bob was really funny when he flared up in this way. “Go on with your story, Bob, please. Of course we’re interested. You were just going to tell us about what really happened when you finally determined to take matters into your own hands and go to the front, whether the German authorities wanted you to or not.”
Somewhat mollified, Bob continued his narrative:
“I happened to be in Malines at the time and the point where the heaviest fighting was going on was in the Yser River district, a considerable distance to the south. Nothing but military trains were running between the two points and naturally I wouldn’t have been permitted to take one of them. My only remaining course was to buy a horse and to take my chances of getting there alone. It took me four days to buy that horse and then I had to pay about four times what he was worth, owing to the fact that the cavalry had long before appropriated every sound animal in the country.
“This noble charger of mine was wind-broken and wall-eyed, those probably being the only reasons why he had not been commandeered previously. He was such an awful looking object that I hated to be seen riding on him, but beggars can’t be choosers and I had to make the best of it.
“While staying there in Malines I had struck up quite a friendly acquaintanceship with several young officers, one of whom—Hoffmansthal by name—was good enough to volunteer his services in securing a passport for me from the commandant. There was all sorts of red tape to be gone through before I finally got it, and when I did I found out that it was made out in the name of ‘Philip Maestrich, citizen of Malines, and by trade a silversmith.’ The papers went on to say that I had been given official permission to travel to Namur, not far from where the fighting was, to the bedside of my sick wife. My friend, Lieutenant Hoffmansthal, explained that he could never have got the passport for me except by this subterfuge.
“So I set out on my wobbly old mare and as far as Corbais all went well. From there on every patrol guarding the roads stopped me and acknowledged the passport with extreme ill-grace. I took to avoiding the main hotels in the towns and slept in all sorts of unpleasant places—sometimes even under a haystack out in the open fields.
“Near Wasseige I found all of the roads blockaded with reinforcements marching to the front, and, rather than risk detection by them, I made a wide détour to the east, turning south again somewhere in the neighborhood of Villers le Temple. That night a dreadful rainstorm drove me to take shelter in a peasant’s cottage, and he, while I slept, galloped on a plough-horse to the nearest German outposts and won a reward for declaring me a spy.
“I was jerked roughly out of bed by a big, red-bearded Uhlan captain, my saddlebags were searched and even the linings cut out to discover the presence of secret papers. There they found my Herald credentials, which said that my name was Robert Russell and not ‘Philip Maestrich.’ That was enough with the blockhead who had arrested me, and, all puffed up with his capture, he sent me with a special detail of men to Combret. Later I was transferred from one camp to another until a hospital train happened along bound for Muhlbruck. They bundled me aboard this for trial by ferocious old General Haberkampf, whose field headquarters were located at our destination.