“That means putting him in a tin can,” said Tom.
“Ze tin can? Ze—how you call—wipe ze floor wiz him?”
“They both mean the same thing,” said Tom. “They mean beating him—good and thorough—kind of.”
Frenchy did not seem to understand but he would wave his hands and say with great vehemence, “Ah, ze Kaiser, he must be defeat! Ze wretch!”
Frenchy’s name was Armande Lateur. He was an American by adoption and though he had spent much time among the people of his own nationality in Canada, he was strong for Uncle Sam with a pleasant, lingering fondness for the region of the “blue Alsatian mountains,” whence he had come.
It was from Frenchy that Tom learned much which (if he had only known it) was to serve him well in the perilous days to come.
The day before they entered the danger zone the two, secure for a little while from the mirthful artillery fire of the soldiers, had a little chat which Tom was destined long to remember.
They were sitting at dusk in the doorway of the unoccupied guardhouse which ordinarily was the second cabin smoking-room.
“Alsace-Lorraine is part of Germany,” said Tom, his heavy manner of talking contrasting strangely with Frenchy’s excitability. “So you were a German citizen before you got to be an American; and your people over there must be German citizens.”
“Zey are Zherman slaves—yess! Citizens—no! See! When still I am a leetle boy, I must learn ze Zherman. I must go to ze Zherman school. My pappa have to pay fine when hees cheeldren speak ze French. My little seester when she sing ze Marsellaise—she must go t’ree days to ze Zherman zhail!”