Stumm pointed to a notice which warned officers to refrain from discussing military operations with mixed company in a railway carriage.
“Sorry,” said Blenkiron, “I can’t read that tombstone language of yours. But I reckon that that notice to trespassers, whatever it signifies, don’t apply to you and me. I take it this gentleman is in your party.”
I sat and scowled, fixing the American with suspicious eyes.
“He is a Dutchman,” said Stumm; “South African Dutch, and he is not happy, for he doesn’t like to hear English spoken.”
“We’ll shake on that,” said Blenkiron cordially. “But who said I spoke English? It’s good American. Cheer up, friend, for it isn’t the call that makes the big wapiti, as they say out west in my country. I hate John Bull worse than a poison rattle. The Colonel can tell you that.”
I dare say he could, but at that moment, we slowed down at a station and Stumm got up to leave. “Good day to you, Herr Blenkiron,” he cried over his shoulder. “If you consider your comfort, don’t talk English to strange travellers. They don’t distinguish between the different brands.”
I followed him in a hurry, but was recalled by Blenkiron’s voice.
“Say, friend,” he shouted, “you’ve left your grip,” and he handed me my bag from the luggage rack. But he showed no sign of recognition, and the last I saw of him was sitting sunk in a corner with his head on his chest as if he were going to sleep. He was a man who kept up his parts well.
There was a motor-car waiting—one of the grey military kind—and we started at a terrific pace over bad forest roads. Stumm had put away his papers in a portfolio, and flung me a few sentences on the journey.
“I haven’t made up my mind about you, Brandt,” he announced. “You may be a fool or a knave or a good man. If you are a knave, we will shoot you.”