For a moment Bob gave up hope. He was unarmed. His rifle had blown out of his hands and his revolver was missing. And he saw, not far off, a number of Germans. It was evident there had been a shift in the lines during the time Bob was unconscious, and the Boches again occupied the position around the demolished farmhouse.
The Hun who had proposed to bayonet Bob raised his weapon, but the other interposed.
"We were told to take prisoners if we could get them," he said in German. "And this is one of their under-officers. He may tell us something."
"You've got another guess coming, Fritzie!" said Bob, aloud.
"The pig-dog says something," remarked the soldier with the rifle. "Do you know what it is, comrade?"
"Nein! How should I speak the rotten talk? Well, we'll search him and take him along with us. The lieutenant will be glad of the prisoner."
Poor Bob was in dire straits, but, still, being taken prisoner was infinitely better than being bayoneted on the spot; and Bob realized this even though he had heard many stories of the German prison camps.
For one wild moment he had an idea of leaping up and giving the best battle possible to his two captors. There were only two immediately near him, and Bob had a sort of patriotic notion that one American was better than half a dozen Germans. But cold facts stared him in the face as he slowly rose to his feet. Among these facts was the realization that he was weak and trembling from the effects of his being so nearly blown to death in the explosion. Another fact was, that though there were only two of the Huns close at hand, there were many others within signaling distance.
"Well, I guess I'll have to give up," thought poor Bob.
And then the Germans closed in on him. Bob could not resist. His pockets were turned inside out, and they took everything he had. They even took his shoes, and tossed him a pair of old, half-rotten ones which the tallest German discarded.