"Vell, we rattle you some more—vat?" the officer said, without very much meaning. His voice was enough to rattle any captive, but Tom was not easily disconcerted, and instead of cowering under this martial ferocity and the scorning looks of his friend, he glanced about him in his frowning, lowering way as if the surroundings interested him more than his captors. But he said nothing.
"You English—no?" the officer demanded.
"We're Americans," said Roscoe, regaining his self-possession.
"Ach! Diss iss good for you. If you are English, ve kill you! You have kamerads—vere?"
"There's only the two of us," said Roscoe. Tom seemed willing enough to let his companion do the talking, and indeed Roscoe, now that he had recovered his poise, seemed altogether the fitter of the two to be the spokesman. "We got rattled, as this kid says." "If we'd followed that light we wouldn't have happened in on you. We hope we don't intrude," he added sarcastically.
The officer glanced at the tiny light in the distance, then at one of the soldiers, then at another, then poured forth a gutteral torrent at them all. Then he peered suspiciously into the darkness.
"For treachery, ve kill," he said.
"I told you there are only two of us," said Roscoe simply.
"Ach, two! Two millions, you mean! Vat? Ach!" he added, with a deprecating wave of his hands. "Vy not billions, huh?"
Roscoe gathered that he was sneering skeptically about the number of Americans reported to be in France.