"So they have," said the officer, laughing.
He went on his way along the quays, and almost immediately stopped laughing. Before him, coming from the direction of the new part of the town, an artillery soldier was leading two horses, or rather he was being led by them. He was drunk. Walking between the two brown horses, holding the reins in his raised hands, he went on stumbling, knocking against the shoulder of one or the other of the beasts, and to save himself from falling, dragged from time to time at one of them, which resisted and moved away.
"What is this?" growled Farnow—"a drunken soldier at this time of day!"
"A little too much malt spirit," said Oberlé. "He is not merry in drink."
Farnow did not answer. Frowning, he watched the man who was approaching, and who was only about ten yards away.
At this distance, according to regimental rules, the man ought to have walked in step and turned his head in the direction of his superior officer. Not only had he forgotten all his instruction and continued to roll painfully between the horses; but at the moment when he had to pass Farnow he murmured something, no doubt an insult.
That was too much. The lieutenant's shoulders shook with anger for a moment, and then he marched straight to the soldier, whose frightened horses backed. The officer felt humiliated for Germany.
"Halt!" he cried. "Stand straight!"
The soldier looked at him, stupefied, made an effort, and succeeded in standing still and nearly erect.
"Your name?"