"To-nights. Ten train. They Shermans. I, Breeteesh subjects," he declared again.
"All right, old cock, we'll let you off," concluded the valiant lance-corporal, looking at the clock, which had just turned 9.30 P.M. Turning to his men, he said, "Look here, boys, we've time tae capture them deevils. Come on—aff tae the station." And down the stairs they walloped like a lot of schoolboys. The terrified visitors gave a sigh of relief as they went out through the great hall door, while poor Otto von Onions sat down and cried.
"This way, lads," yelled Spud, as they thundered into the Mudtown Station. There they saw a mongrel gang of heavily-built [pg 107] Germans waiting for the train. A Consular official with a ponderous umbrella was in charge. He had them marshalled in a rough sort of group. Some had still their tail-coats on, others had napkins round their necks, while a few showed their bare heels over the tops of their shoes. A villainous crowd; more ready to use the stiletto than their fists. All were eagerly discussing the great Day, and how long it would take them to invade our country, when they were startled by the terrific yell of Spud Tamson's men.
Charge! was the order of the day. In a second a peaceful station was turned into a bear garden. Kicks, shrieks, and yells rent the air. Human beings rocked to and fro, and tumbled over the luggage littered over the platform.
"I protest, in the name of the Kaiser," said the Consular gent with the umbrella.
"Tak' that, in the name o' the King," said Spud, delivering a terrific punch on the German's bulbous nose. Blood burst all over his ponderous paunch, but he was game, and pluckily tackled Spud with his umbrella. One whack over his enemy's head smashed the whole framework.
"Made in Germany," yelled Spud, giving [pg 108] him one full on the waist-line. He staggered and fell into a writhing mass of Germans and Militiamen. Micky Cameron was seen furiously belting a stout little German, with one hand; with the other he was rapidly relieving him of his watch, money, and trinkets, including a few silver napkin rings which the waiter had "borrowed" as a present for the Kaiser. Beefy Duncan found a fiendish delight in flattening the nose of Adolph Squarehead, the late boots of The Grand; while they nobly strived to tap blood and gather as much loot as possible in the struggle. It was a titanic conflict. Blood, skin, and hair were flying like snowflakes. Faces resembled lumps of beefsteak instead of respectable features. And although the Militia were outnumbered, they struggled bravely on. At last there was a cry of "Surrender." The Germans shrieked for mercy, while the stationmaster vainly implored for peace. An armistice was granted, during which the enemy gathered up their false teeth, collars, and other displaced apparel.
"Fall in now," ordered Lance-Corporal Tamson, as he wiped his bleeding nose.
"Quick march," and out of the station [pg 109] marched the escort with their captures. Hundreds had gathered and followed the convoy along. Spud headed straight for the Officers' Mess. There was no halt on arriving at the door. He marched them into the anteroom, where Colonel Corkleg and his officers were enjoying an evening smoke. All were startled at the sight of the twenty bleeding and battered Germans as well as the rowdy-looking escort. Before they had recovered, the whole lot was in the room, and Spud Tamson standing to attention at their head.
"What the devil do you mean, corporal?" roared the colonel.