“It is forbidden,” he said.
“What is forbidden?” grinned Dalroy amiably, clipping his syllables, and speaking in the roughest voice he could assume.
“You cannot pass this way.”
“Good! Then I can go home to bed. That will be better than cleaning engines.”
Fortunately, a Bavarian regiment was detailed for duty at Aix-la-Chapelle that night; the sentry knew where the engine-sheds were situated no more than Dalroy. Further, he was not familiar with the Aachen accent.
“Oh, is that it?” he inquired.
“Yes. Look at my cap!”
Dalroy held up the lantern. The official lettering was evidently convincing.
“But what about the lady?”