Father Henaghan’s Latin was a complete failure. He seemed irritated and reported very unfavourably of the intelligence of the patient.
“It’s my belief,” he said, “that the man’s mind’s gone. He must have got a crack on the head somehow, as well as breaking his leg, and had the sense knocked out of him. He looks to me like a man who’d understand well enough when you talked to him if he had his right mind.”
This view of the sailor’s condition made Mrs. Jackson nervous. She said she had no experience of lunatics, and disliked being brought into contact with them. She wanted to back out of her promise to ask the necessary question in German. In the end she consented to go, but only if her husband was allowed to accompany her. She was back again in five minutes, and said definitely that the man knew no German whatever.
“Now,” said the colonel, “it’s your turn, doctor. Go at him with your Norwegian.”
“The fact is,” said the doctor, “that, owing to the three plays you lent me being merely translations, I’ve only been able to get a hold of one Norwegian word. However, as it happens, it is an extremely useful word in this particular case. The Norwegian for a clergyman,” he said, triumphantly, “is ‘Pastor.’ What’s more, I’ve got a hold of the name of one of their clergy. If this man is a Norwegian, and has been in the habit of going to the theatre, I expect he’ll know all about Pastor Manders.”
“It’s clever of you to have fished that out of the book I lent you,” said the colonel. “But I don’t quite see how it will help you to find out whether our friend with the broken leg is a Protestant or a Roman Catholic.”
“It will help if it’s worked properly, if it’s worked the way I mean to work it, that is to say, if the man is a Norwegian, and I don’t see what else he can be.”
“He might be a Turk,” said Father Henaghan.