“Oh well,” said Gorman, “I suppose you were writing poetry and didn’t want to be disturbed. What was it? An ode to the Fatherland, ‘Oh, Deutschland, Deutschland!’—that kind of thing.”
Von Moll strongly suspected that Gorman was laughing at him again. It seemed almost incredible that any one would dare to do such a thing, but Gorman was plainly an irresponsible person.
“I was,” said von Moll, “carrying out the orders of the Emperor.”
“The Emperor again,” said Gorman. “But this time it won’t do. It really won’t. You can’t expect me to believe that the Emperor sent you all the way to Salissa to write poetry in a cave.”
“There was no poetry. The Emperor’s orders were not about poetry. They were about——”
Von Moll stopped abruptly and winked at Gorman with drunken solemnity.
“I don’t give your Emperor credit for much intelligence,” said Gorman, “but he must surely have more sense than to give orders of any kind about a cave in an out-of-the-way potty little island like this. Why can’t you tell the truth, von Moll?”
Von Moll straightened himself in his chair and glared at Gorman. His eyes were wide open, so wide that a rim of white showed all round the pupils. His forehead was deeply wrinkled. His nostrils were distended.
“Gott in Himmel!” he said, “you doubt my word.”
Gorman chuckled. Von Moll was decidedly amusing when partially drunk. His glare—he continued to glare in the most ferocious manner—was a most exciting thing to see.