"What you think of our Kaiser?"
"Fine man," said I.
"Some say ze Kaiser is too English to make ze war. But do you know wat I read in ze newspaper? Der Kaiser cut his hand by accident, zen he hold up his finger—so, viz ze blood on it, and he say, 'Dat is my las' blood of English tropp,' and he ... the blood away."
Not knowing the word for "flicked" Otto told me in dumb show with his fingers.
"Last drop of English blood, eh?" said I.
"Yes."
"So he's quite German now, and ready to fight."
As I sat at the side of the road every passer-by was interested in my fire and my pot. They pitied me when they saw me trudging along the road, and when I told them I was tramping to Chicago they commonly exclaimed:
"Gee! I wouldn't do that for ten thousand dollars."
But when they saw me cooking my meals they stopped and looked at me wistfully—that was their weakness; a hankering, not after the wilderness, but for the manna there. They addressed to me such non-pertinent remarks as: