"But he wears an infantryman's uniform," persisted the sergeant, holding the lantern above his head and peering into Farrar's face.
"Do you doubt a German officer's word, numbskull?" thundered the "baron" in the typically blustering tone in which the military caste address their rank and file, "Have you never heard of a man being transferred from one branch of the army to another? You are wasting my time. I feel inclined to report the delay. Is there a field officer anywhere about?"
"Pardon, Herr Major," stammered the overwhelmed sergeant. "Pray overlook the matter."
"For this once, then," said the Moke magnanimously. "Now tell me: can I obtain a conveyance of any sort to take me to Trieste?"
The sergeant pondered.
"I am afraid not, Herr Major. It is a very rough road. But——"
"But what?" demanded Sylvester, doing his level best to flurry the already disconcerted man.
"One of the coast patrol boats puts into the fishing port here on her way to Trieste. She is due at a few minutes after midnight. They might give you a passage."
"I loathe sea passages," objected the Moke. "Is it a large craft?"
"Fairly, Herr Major. She carries only three men—a petty officer, a seaman, and a motor mechanician; occasionally she carries military officers from the various ports when they wish to visit Trieste. I will send and ask my commanding officer's permission for you to take a passage in her."