Only one phrase, repeated again and again could he recognize—the name of “Herr Booteraidge.”
“Gollys!” said Bert. “They've spotted it.”
“Besser,” said some one, and some rapid German followed.
He perceived that close at hand was a field telephone, and that a tall officer in blue was talking thereat about him. Another stood close beside him with the portfolio of drawings and photographs in his hand. They looked round at him.
“Do you spik Cherman, Herr Booteraidge?”
Bert decided that he had better be dazed. He did his best to seem thoroughly dazed. “Where AM I?” he asked.
Volubility prevailed. “Der Prinz,” was mentioned. A bugle sounded far away, and its call was taken up by one nearer, and then by one close at hand. This seemed to increase the excitement greatly. A mono-rail car bumbled past. The telephone bell rang passionately, and the tall officer seemed to engage in a heated altercation. Then he approached the group about Bert, calling out something about “mitbringen.”
An earnest-faced, emaciated man with a white moustache appealed to Bert. “Herr Booteraidge, sir, we are chust to start!”
“Where am I?” Bert repeated.
Some one shook him by the other shoulder. “Are you Herr Booteraidge?” he asked.