“I don’t blame you,” said Tom.
“So zen I must flee. Even to be rude to ze Zherman soldier—zis is crime. So I come to Americ’. Zey are looking for me, but I go by night, I sleep in ze haystack—zis I show. (He exhibited a little iron button with nothing whatever upon it.) You see? Zis is—what you call—talisman. Yess?
“So I come to Epinal across ze border, through ze pass in ze mountains. I am free! I go to my uncle in Canada who is agent to our wines. Zen I come to Chicago, where I haf’ other uncle—also agent. Now I go to France wiz ze Americans to take Alsace back. What should I care if they laugh at me? We go to take Alsace back! Alsace!—Listen—I will tell you!
“Vive la France!
A bas la Prusse!
D’Schwowe mien
Zuem Elsass ’nuess!
See if you can say zis,“ he smiled.
Tom shook his head.
“I will tell you—see.
“Long live France!
Down with Prussia!
The Boches must
Get out of Alsace!”
“It must make you feel good after all that to go back now and make them give up Alsace,” said Tom, his stolid nature moved by the young fellow’s enthusiasm. “I’d like it if I’d been with you when you escaped and ran away like that. I like long hikes and adventures and things, anyway. It must be a long time since you saw your people.”
“Saw! Even I haf’ not heard for t’ree year. Eight years ago I fled away. Even before America is in ze war I haf’ no letters. Ze Zhermans tear zem up! Ah, no matter. When it is all over and ze boundary line is back at ze Rhine again—zen I will see zem. My pappa, my moother, my seester Florette——”