Again the irritating, dubious, and speculative "Per-haps". The sub realized that he was in a tight corner.
"What this wound--how caused?" enquired the unter-leutnant, indicating the white scar on the young officer's wrist--the legacy of the affair off Jutland. "Ach! Shell wound, hein? You are of military age. Stand aside."
In spite of the brown jersey and the soiled serge trousers, the keen-witted Hun had come to the correct conclusion, that the tall, bronzed man was not a genuine smack hand. Not satisfied with the self-styled Smith's replies, he decided to interrogate his companion.
"Your name?" he demanded of Leslie, with a fierceness that effectually quenched all further inclination on the part of the youth to snigger.
"Smith, too," replied Leslie. "He's my brother."
Again a display of palmistry. Leslie's hands, though grubby, were also unmistakably unused to rough work.
"How old?"
"Fifteen?"
"You lie."
"On my word of honour," declared Leslie.