Then Fritz bared his grievance. He didn’t mind, he said, being a prisoner. The size of his captor was the thing that galled. “And for Gott’s sake,” he added, “make him give back my helmet.”
The proper authority turned to the captain’s little pal. “He’s your prisoner,” he said. “What do you want to do with the helmet?”
“Keep it, sir,” said the captain’s little pal.
And it will be used back in Australia some day to illustrate the story, which by that time will doubtless have more trimmings.
“But how about Fritz?” I asked. “When he gets home and tells the same story, he’ll have nothing with which to prove it.”
“He ine’t agoin’ to tell the sime story.”
We were welcomed at our destination by a captain, another regular correspondent, and two good English cars. The captain said he was expecting another guest on this train, a Harvard professor on research work bent.
“I have no idea what he looks like,” said the captain.
“I have,” said Mr. Gibbons and I in concert, but it went over the top.
The professor appeared at length, and we were all whisked some thirty kilometers to a luncheon worth having. Afterward we were taken to the Chinese camp. Chinatown, we’ll call it, is where the Chink laborers are mobilized when they first arrive and kept until their various specialties are discovered. Then each is assigned to the job he can do best. I was told I mustn’t mention the number of Chinamen now in France, but I can say, in their own language, it’s a biggee lottee.