“How did you happen to come to America?” Tom asked.
“Ah! I will tell you,” Frenchy said, as a grim, dangerous look gathered in his eyes. “You are—how many years, my frien’!”
“I’m seventeen,” said Tom.
“One cannot tell wiz ze Americans,” Frenchy explained. “Zey grow so queeck—so beeg. In Europe, zey haf’ nevaire seen anyzing like zis—zis army,” he added, indicating with a sweeping wave of his hand the groups of lolling, joking soldiers.
“They make fun of you a lot, don’t they?”
“Ah, zat I do not mind.”
“Maybe that’s why they all like you.”
“I will tell you,” said Frenchy, reverting to Tom’s previous question. “I am zhust ze same age as you—sefenteen—when zey throw my seester in ze zhail because she sing ze Marsellaise. Zat I cannot stand! You see?—When ze soldiers—fat Zhermans, ugh! When zey come for her, I strike zis fat one—here—so.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Tom.
“Hees eye I cut open, so. Wiz my fist—zhust boy’s fist, but so sharp.”