"Good for you, Dave!" Freddy said in a low voice. "He can't make dirty traitors out of us."
Heads up and shoulders back the two of them stared defiantly at the officer. He glared back at them for a moment and then as quick as the blink of an eye his big face broke out all smiles.
"Good, good, boys!" he cried. "I like you all the more for refusing. I wouldn't tell anything either if I should happen to be captured. All right, we will speak no more about that. But, I must make out a report. Give me your names, and addresses. I will send word through the Red Cross to your families so they will know where you are."
"But I live in America!" Dave cried. "I'm on a trip with my father. He's in London, as I told you, but I don't know where!"
"What is his name?" the officer said and picked up a pencil. "I will have word sent to the hotel where you stopped in Paris. It will be forwarded to him wherever he is. Well?"
Dave hesitated a moment, then decided there wasn't anything else to be done about it.
"Mr. Richard C. Dawson," he said. "My name is David. Hotel de Ney, Twenty-One Rue Passey, Paris. But, wait! He went to see the American Ambassador in London. You can send word there."
That bit of information seemed to startle the German. He gave Dave a long piercing look, then nodded and scribbled on a piece of paper in front of him. In a minute he glanced up at Freddy.
"And you, Englisher?" he grunted.
"My name is Frederick Covington Farmer," Freddy said. "I live at Sixty-Four Baker Street, London, England. But, see here, sir! You don't really intend to keep us prisoners, do you? I mean, after all, you know!"