“‘Skittles!’ he says (that was a great word of his), ‘you’ll take parole, and go back to America and invent another Zigler, a trifle heavier in the working parts—I would. We’ve got more prisoners than we know what to do with as it is,’ he says. ‘You’ll only be an additional expense to me as a taxpayer. Think of Schedule D,’ he says, ‘and take parole.’
“‘I don’t know anything about your tariffs,’ I said, ‘but when I get to Cape Town I write home for money, and I turn in every cent my board’ll cost your country to any ten-century-old department that’s been ordained to take it since William the Conqueror came along.’
“‘But, confound you for a thick-headed mule,’ he says, ‘this war ain’t any more than just started! Do you mean to tell me you’re going to play prisoner till it’s over?’
“‘That’s about the size of it,’ I says, ‘if an Englishman and an American could ever understand each other.’
“‘But, in Heaven’s Holy Name, why?’ he says, sitting down of a heap on an anthill.
“‘Well, Cap,’ I says, ‘I don’t pretend to follow your ways of thought, and I can’t see why you abuse your position to persecute a poor prisoner o’ war on his!’
“‘My dear fellow,’ he began, throwing up his hands and blushing, ‘I’ll apologise.’
“‘But if you insist,’ I says, ‘there are just one and a half things in this world I can’t do. The odd half don’t matter here; but taking parole, and going home, and being interviewed by the boys, and giving lectures on my single-handed campaign against the hereditary enemies of my beloved country happens to be the one. We’ll let it go at that, Cap.’
“‘But it’ll bore you to death,’ he says. The British are a heap more afraid of what they call being bored than of dying, I’ve noticed.
“‘I’ll survive,’ I says, ‘I ain’t British. I can think,’ I says.