The scarecrows greeted Barcroft with cheerful smiles as he approached. In spite of their rags, the torments of hunger and degradation that they had undergone, they were British to the core—men over sixty years of age who, deemed to be useless by the Germans, had been repatriated: living examples of the gentle and humane treatment afforded to the unfortunate captives who had the ill-luck to fall into the hands of the apostles of kultur.
Billy interrogated the men one by one. No need to doubt their words. One and all were unanimous in their story of the horrors of the famine-prisons of Germany.
"I won't ever turn up my nose at a dogbiscuit after this, sir," said one old veteran of seventy-two.
"William McDonald—where's William McDonald?" inquired Barcroft reading the names from the list.
"Here, sir."
The speaker was of different appearance from the nine. Although dressed in rough clothes his garments bore the appearance of being practically new, nor did his features betray the traces of months of semi-starvation.
"Not much to complain about," he replied in answer to the flight-sub's question. "I was at Eylau. Fair amount of food and of good quality."
"You are not sixty, by any means," said Barcroft.
"No, not fifty yet. Heart trouble—fit for nothing, so they sent me back to England."
"H'm," muttered the flight-sub.