He was a slim, foppish fellow, and he looked more puzzled than angry.
“I offer you enough,” he said, again stretching out his hand.
At that I fairly roared. “If you try to bribe me, you infernal little haberdasher, I’ll have you off that horse and chuck you in the river.”
He no longer misunderstood me. He began to curse and threaten, but I cut him short.
“Come along to the commandant, my boy,” I said, and I marched away, tearing up his typewritten sheets as I went and strewing them behind me like a paper chase.
We had a fine old racket in the commandant’s office. I said it was my business, as representing the German Government, to see the stuff delivered to the consignee at Constantinople ship-shape and Bristol-fashion. I told him it wasn’t my habit to proceed with cooked documents. He couldn’t but agree with me, but there was that wrathful Oriental with his face as fixed as a Buddha.
“I am sorry, Rasta Bey,” he said; “but this man is in the right.”
“I have authority from the Committee to receive the stores,” he said sullenly.
“Those are not my instructions,” was the answer. “They are consigned to the Artillery commandant at Chataldja, General von Oesterzee.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Very well. I will have a word to say to General von Oesterzee, and many to this fellow who flouts the Committee.” And he strode away like an impudent boy.