The answer came red-hot from thirty British throats:
"Waterloo!" (There was no "sir" this time.)
"Vaterloo?" replied Mr. Klotz condescendingly. "Yes. But vere would your Engleesh army haf been at Vaterloo without Blucher?" He puffed out his chest. "Tell me dat, Brinkle!"
"Blucher, sir?" replied Master Pringle deferentially. "Who was he, sir?"
"You haf not heard of Blucher?" gasped Mr. Klotz in genuine horror.
The form, who seldom encountered Mr. Klotz without hearing of Blucher, shook their heads with polite regret. Suddenly a hand shot up. It was the hand of Master Tomlinson, who it will be remembered had already burned his boats for the afternoon.
"Do you mean Blutcher, sir?" he inquired.
"Blutcher? Himmel! Nein!" roared Mr. Klotz. "I mean Blucher."
"I expect he was the same person, sir," said Tomlinson soothingly. "I remember him now. He was the Russian who——"