“Where has Dootchy gone, Oi wondther,” muttered Tim, scratching his head. “Sure, an’ he’s so big thot av he was innywheres aroun’ here Oi ought to be able to see him.”
He looked in all directions, carefully, searchingly, but Fritz was not to be seen, which was very puzzling, and Tim did not understand it at all.
“Thot does bate all,” murmured Tim. “What shall Oi do? Shall Oi stay here, or go in search av him?”
This was a problem, and Tim sat down, the better to figure it out.
He was sitting there, his back against a tree, trying to determine where Fritz could be, when suddenly there was a rustling and scratching sound above him, and then something hit him on the head and shoulders, knocking him to the ground and almost stunning him.
Nevertheless Tim scrambled up hastily, and was greatly amazed to see his comrade, Fritz, lying on his back on the ground a few yards distant, blinking up at the sky as if dazed. An exclamation of anger and amazement escaped the Irish soldier’s lips.
“Fritz, ye Dutch rascal, ye, where did ye drop from, innyhow?” he cried.
Fritz blinked a few more times, and then slowly rose to a sitting posture, looked at Tim, grinned somewhat sheepishly, and then said: “From der dreetop, Tim.”
“Oh, ye fell out av the tree, did ye?” the Irish soldier remarked.
“Yah,” nodded the Dutchman. “I vos glimbin’ down, alretty, an’ my hold slipped und down I fell kerthump.”