"Then I give it up," said Tom resignedly. "The compass says north—we're going north. This is the very same toymaker."
"Go-o-od night!" said Archer, with even more than his usual vehemence. "Maybe the Gerrmans have conquerred the Norrth Pole and taken all the steel to make mountains, just like they knocked international law all endways, hey? That's why the compass don't point right. G-o-o-o-o-od night!"
This ingenious theory, involving a rather large piece of strategy even for "supermen," did not appeal to Tom's sober mind.
"That's what it is," said Archer. "You've got to admit that if they could send Zeps and submarines and things to the North Pole and cop all the steel, the British navy, and ourrs too, would be floppin' around the ocean like a chicken with its head cut off.—It's a good idea!"
Tom went up to the old toymaker, who greeted them with a smile, seeming no more surprised to see them than he had been the day before.
"North—north?" asked Tom, pointing.
"Nort—yah," said the old man, pointing too.
"Water," said Tom; "swim—swim across" (he pointed southward and made the motions of swimming). The old man nodded as if he understood.
"Ach—vauder, yach,—Nonnenmattweiher."
"What?" said Tom.