One of the soldiers coughed explosively, and ran away, and the two others trotted after him. When they looked back, Mr. Shutliffe was still standing uncertainly in the dusk, mildly concerned as to whether he should lock up the pigs or obey the German gentleman.
The three soldiers halted behind the church wall.
“That was a fine start!” mocked Herbert. “Of course, you had to pick out the Village Idiot. If they are all going to take it like that, we had better pack up and go home.”
“The village inn is still open,” said Ford. “We'll close It.”
They entered with fixed bayonets and dropped the butts of their rifles on the sanded floor. A man in gaiters choked over his ale and two fishermen removed their clay pipes and stared. The bar-maid alone arose to the occasion.
“Now, then,” she exclaimed briskly, “What way is that to come tumbling into a respectable place? None of your tea-garden tricks in here, young fellow, my lad, or—”
The tallest of the three intruders, in deep guttural accents, interrupted her sharply.
“We are Germans!” he declared. “This village is captured. You are prisoners of war. Those lights you will out put, and yourselves lock in. If you into the street go, we will shoot!”
He gave a command in a strange language; so strange, indeed, that the soldiers with him failed to entirely grasp his meaning, and one shouldered his rifle, while the other brought his politely to a salute.
“You ass!” muttered the tall German. “Get out!”