“Good-night!” growled Whistler. “Our officers don’t do that. They would consider it beneath them to be saved before their crew.”
Eberhardt, who was sitting up, shrugged his shoulders. “Yes?” he repeated. “But of course, they are not gnädige Herren.”
“That means ‘noble sirs’,” scoffed Whistler. “No, thank heaven, we do not have such a caste as that in America!”
“You have some very rich men—very rich. I have heard my cousin Emil say. He knows many of them. Many are from German blood. Of course, when we finish the war, they will create a caste, as you call it, in your United States. Cousin Emil says——”
“Who is your Cousin Emil?” demanded Phil Morgan more amused than angered after all, by this kind of talk. “Is he in the States now?”
“Not yet,” said young Eberhardt, slyly looking at his inquisitor. “But he is going.”
“Before the war ends? Not much chance of that.”
“Poof!” rejoined the German youth. “You cannot stop Emil. What he wants to do, he does. He is a great man. He has been decorated by the Emperor.”
“What department does he fight in?”
“Ah, he is greater than a fighter,” said young Eberhardt, shaking his head. “He goes hither and yon—where he chooses. In France, England, Italy, and now to your country, America.”