“I see ye understhand United States,” said McDermott. “I was afraid ye might not, an' I w'u'd have to shoot ye.”
“Kamerad!” exclaimed the man.
“Ye are no comrade av mine,” said McDermott, peering at the man's face through the eery halflight of early morning, “an' comrade av mine ye niver was! I know ye well! Ye are Goostave Schmidt b' name, an' wanst ye tinded bar in a dive down b' the Brooklyn wather front!”
The man stared at McDermott in silence for a long minute, and then recollection slowly came to him.
“MagDermodd!” he said. “Batrick MagDermodd!”
“The same,” said McDermott.
“Gott sei dank!” said the German. “I haf fallen into der hands of a friend.” And with the beginning of a smile he started to lower his hands.
“Put thim up!” cried McDermott. “Don't desave y'silf! Ye are no fri'nd av mine!”
The smile faded, and something like a look of panic took its place on the German's face.
“Th' last time I saw ye, ye was in bad company, f'r ye was alone,” said McDermott. “An' I come over here lookin' f'r ye, an' I find ye in bad company ag'in!”