“Ja! Und in deinem Lande—in your land you may pick grapes when you like, was?” shouted the long one.
“A couple of bunches? Of course!”
“Was! In Italien?” In his voice was all the sarcasm he could call up from a tolerably caustic nature.
“I am no Italian. I come from the United States.”
“United States!” bellowed the gendarme, looking around at his companion. “What is this United States?”
“Ah-er-well, there is such a country,” suggested the midget, “but—”
“And in this country of yours you do not speak French, nor German, nor yet Italian?” snapped the officer, relapsing unconsciously into French.
“No, we speak English.”
“Mille diables! English! What then is that?”
“Ja. Es gibt so eine Sprache,” ventured the dwarf.