"Very," said Smith. We halted. The dynamo droned on like a giant bee.
Raoul continued to sing as he moved around in the bottling house, and the words he sang came to us quite plainly:
"Crack-brain-cripple-arm
Sacking city, town and farm!
You, your children and your friends,
All will come to rotten ends!"
"Smith," said I, "who on earth do you suppose he means by 'Crack-brain-cripple-arm'?"
"Surely," mused Smith, "he could not be referring to the All-highest of Hunland.... Could he?"
"Impossible," said I. We went into the bottling house. And the song of Raoul ceased.
It struck me, as he turned and came toward us with his frank, quick smile and his gay and slightly jaunty bearing, that he had about him something of that nameless allure of a soldier of France.
"But of course you are Swiss," I said to him with a trace of a grin twitching at my lips.
"Of course, Monsieur," he replied innocently.
"Certainly.... And, how about that machinery, Raoul?"