“Is anything said of a fat major named Busch, whom Henri Joos the miller stuck with a fork?”
“A Prussian, do you mean?”
“Ay. One of the same breed—a Westphalian.”
“I haven’t heard.”
“He tried to assault my daughter, so I got him. The second one, a Uhlan, killed my wife, and I got him too. I cut his throat down there in the main street. It’s easy to kill Germans. They’re soft, like pigs.”
Though Joos’s half-demented boasting was highly injudicious, Dalroy did not interfere. He was in a mood to let matters drift. They could not well be worse. He had tried to control the course of events in so far as they affected his own and Irene Beresford’s fortunes, but had failed lamentably. Now, fate must take charge.
Pochard’s comment was to the point, at any rate. “I congratulate you, monsieur,” he said. “I’ll do a bit in that line myself when this little one is lodged with his aunt in Huy. If every Belgian accounts for two Prussians, you’ll hold them till the French and English join up.”
“Do you know for certain where the English are?” put in Dalroy eagerly.
“Yes, at Charleroi. The French are in Namur. Come with me to Huy. A few days, and the sales Alboches will be pelting back to the Rhine.”