"Eh? eh?" Feller put his hand to his ear. "Quite deaf!" he quavered. "But I judge you ask if I am coming with you. No. I have to stay to look after my garden. It has been sadly damaged, I fear."
"That's right—of course you're deaf!" agreed Stransky, well knowing the contrary. "I'll be lonely without you, pal. It was love at first sight with me!"
"And with me!" Feller whispered. "You and I, with a brigade of infantry and guns—" he began, but remembering his part, as he often would in the middle of a sentence since the distraction of war was in his mind, he turned to go.
"A cheer for the old gardener! We don't know who he is or was, and it's none of our business. He saved the day!" called Stransky.
Feller started; he paused and looked back as he heard that stentorian chorus in his honor; and, irresistibly, he made a snappy officer's salute before starting on.
"That was very sweet to me," he was thinking, and then: "A mistake! a mistake! One thought! One duty!"
Making to pass around the corner of the house, he was confronted by Marta, who had come to the end of the veranda. There, within hearing of the soldiers, the dialogue that followed was low-toned, and it was swift and palpitant with repressed emotion.
"Mr. Feller, I saw you at the automatic. I heard what the wounded private of the Grays said to you and realized how true it was."
"He is a prisoner. He cannot tell."
"Does he need to? You have been seen—the conspicuous figure of a man in gardener's garb fighting on the very terrace of his own garden! The Gray staff is bound to hear of such an extraordinary occurrence. It is one of those stories that travel of themselves. And Westerling will find that same gardener here when he comes! What hope have you for your ruse, then?"