“Do you know what that is?” demanded one of them, in French, as he waved a small badge before my eyes.
I certainly did. It was the official shield of the rural gendarmerie.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Back you go with us to Sion!” roared the officer. He was a lean, lank giant who, evidently in virtue of his length, assumed the position of spokesman. His companion, almost a dwarf, nodded his head vigorously in approval.
“Eh bien?” I answered, too weary to argue the matter.
“Yes,” blustered the spokesman, “back to Sion and the magistrate—” he paused, squinted at the dwarf, and went on in dulcet tones, “unless you pay thirty francs.”
“Thirty francs! Where on earth should I get thirty francs?”
In my excitement I somewhat bungled my French.
“Where go you?” asked the pocket edition of the law. His voice was soothing and he spoke in German.
“To Italy. I am a workman.”