Herbert moved slowly across to where the German wounded were ensconced and was accosted by Don as the latter was leaving.
“I suppose human nature doesn’t differ much the world over,” Don said. “Those poor chaps in there are a queer lot, nevertheless. Some of them seem grateful for what I was trying to do for them; one of them caught and tried to kiss my hand. Another, who is very bad, kept talking to me and when I held my torch and stooped over to say something that he might understand for sympathy, I’m hanged if he didn’t reach up and try to strike me and he spit at me, too, like an angry cat. It made the young surgeon so mad that he slapped the fellow’s face; then apologized to me most profusely. And the string of German talk—ugh! I’ll never want to hear a word of it again when I get back home.”
“You won’t ever hear much of it, I’m thinking,” said Herbert.
“Why, do you think we’re not going to get out?”
“I was meaning that the language is going to be very unpopular at home for a long while.”
“How about Professor Meyer at school?”
“Just before I left I heard that he had left; was fired. They traced some propaganda to him, and other things.”
“Hurrah for old Brighton!” Don said.
“And may we enjoy her bright halls once more, Don.”
“Amen! But it’s a toss-up; eh, Herb?”