“We can’t shoot him without a court-martial,” replied the kind-faced senior.
Then Sam interpolated:
“Look’ee here, sir. I’m fair sick of all this. My name bean’t Paul. My name’s Sam. I was a-thinnin’ a line of tarnips—”
Both officers burst out laughing, and the younger one said:
“Good! damn good! Isn’t it amazing, sir, the way they not only learn the language, but even take the trouble to learn a dialect?”
The older man busied himself with some papers.
“Well, Sam,” he remarked, “you shall be given a chance to prove your identity. Our methods are less drastic than those of your Boche masters. What part of England are you supposed to come from? Let’s see how much you can bluff us with your topographical knowledge.”
“Oi was a-thinnin’ a loine o’ tarnips this morning at ’alf-past seven on Mr. Dodge’s farm at Halvesham, when one o’ these ’ere airyplanes come roight down among the swedes. I tells ’ee to get clear o’ that, when the feller what gets owt o’ the car, ’e drahs a revowler and ’e says, ‘You must ’company I—’”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the senior officer; “that’s all very good. Now tell me—Where is Halvesham? What is the name of the local vicar? I’m sure you’d know that.”