“Your quotations are fatally mixed,” retorted my companion.
From across the park sounded Plooie’s patient falsetto: “Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees! Annie Oombrella for mend? Parapluie-ee-ee-” The call broke off in a kind of choke.
“What’s happened to Plooie?” I asked. “The youngsters can’t have got back from the parade already, have they?”
“A very tall man has stopped him,” said the Bonnie Lassie. “Plooie has dropped his kit.... He’s trying to salute.... It must be one of the Belgian officers.... Oh, Dominie!”
“Well, what?” I demanded impatiently and cursed the recreant Mendel in my heart.
“It can’t be ... you don’t think they can be arresting poor Plooie at this late day for evading service?”
“Serve him right if they did,” said I.
“I believe they are. The big man has taken him by the arm and is leading him along. Poor Plooie! He’s all wilted down. It’s a shame!” cried the Bonnie Lassie, beginning to flame. “It ought not to be allowed.”
“Probably they’re taking him away. Do you see an official-looking automobile anywhere about?”
“There’s a strange car over on the Avenue. Oh, dear! Poor Annie Oombrella! But—but they’re not going there. They’re going into Schepstein’s basement.”