Dalroy was shaving, for the first time in thirty-three days, when voices reached him through the open window. He listened.
Smithy had cornered Shiney Black in the hotel yard, and, in his own phrase, was puttin’ ’im through the ’oop.
“You don’t know it, Shiney, but you’re reely a verdamd Henglishman,” he said, with an accurate reproduction of Von Halwig’s manner if not his accent. “The grite German nytion is abart ter roll yer in the mud, an’ wipe its big feet on yer tummy. You’ve awsked fer it long enough, an’ nah yer goin’ ter git it in the neck. Blood an’ sausage! The cheek o’ a silly little josser like you tellin’ the Lord-’Igh-Cock-a-doodle-doo that ’e can’t boss everybody as ’e dam well likes! Shiney, you’re done in! The Keyser sez so, an’ ’e ought ter know. W’y? That shows yer miserable hignorance! The Keyser sez so, I tell yer, so none o’ yer lip, or I, Von Schmit, o’ the Dirty ’Alf-Hundredth, will biff you on the boko. But no! I must keep me ’air on. As you an’ hevery hother verdamd Henglishman will be snuffed aht before closin’-time, I shall grashiously tell thee wot’s wot an’ ’oo’s ’oo. Germany, the friend o’ peace—no, you blighter, not Chawlie Peace, the burglar, but the lydy in a nightie, wiv a dove in one ’and an’ a holive-branch in the other—Germany will wide knee-deep in Belgian an’ French ber-lud so as to ’and you the double Nelson. By land an’ sea an’ pawcels post she’ll rine fire an’ brimstone on your pore thick ’ead. What ’ave you done, you’d like ter know? Wot ’aven’t you done? Aren’t you alive? Wot crime can ekal that when the Keyser said, ‘Puff! aht—tallow-candle!’ Ach, pig-dorg, I shpit on yer!”
“You go an’ wash yer fice once more, Smithy,” said Shiney, forcing a word in edgeways. “It’ll improve your looks, per’aps. I dunno.”
“That’s done it,” yelped Smithy, warming to his theme. “That’s just yer narsty, scoffin’ British w’y o’ speakin’ to quiet, respectable Germans. That’s wot gets us mad. I’m surprised at yer, Shiney! Yer hattitude brings tears to me heyes. Time an’ agine you’ve ’eard ahr bee-utiful langwidge——”
“I ’ave, indeed,” interrupted Shiney. “But none o’ it ’ere, me lad. There’s a reel born lydy in one o’ them bedrooms.”
“I’m not torkin’ o’ the kind of tosh you hunderstand,” retorted Smithy. “I’m alludin’ to the sweet-sahndin’ langwidge o’ our conquerors. You’ve ’eard it hoffen enuf from the sorft mowves o’ Yewlans. On’y larst night you ’eard it spoke by that stawr hactor, Von ’Allwig, of the Potsdam Busters. Yet you can git nothink orf yer chest but a low-dahn cockney wheeze w’en a benefactor’s givin’ yer the strite tip. Pore Shiney! Ye think yer goin’ back to Hengland, ’ome, an’ beauty—to the barrick-square, bully-beef an’ booze, an’ plenty o’ it. Dontcher believe it! Wot you’re in fer is a dose o’ German Kultur. W’en yer ship’s been torpedoed fourteen times between Hostend an’ Dover, w’en yer sarth-eastern trine ’as bumped inter a biker’s dozen o’ different sorts o’ mines, w’en you’re Zepped the minnit you crorse the Strend to the nearest pub, you’ll begin ter twig wot the Hemperor of All the ’Uns is ackshally a-doin’ of. It’s hall hup wiv yer, Shiney! You’ve ether got ter lie dahn an’ doi, er learn German. Nah, w’ich is it ter be? Go west wiv yer benighted country, or go nap on the Keyser?”
“Torkin’ o’ pubs reminds me,” yawned Shiney. “I couldn’t get any forrarder on that ginger-pop the Belgian horficers gev us. In one o’ them Yewlans’ pawket-books there was five French quid. Wot abart a bottle o’ beer?”
“What abart it?” agreed Smithy instantly.