Then Sam interpolated:
“Look ’ee ’ere, sir, I’m fair’ sick of all this. My name bean’t Paul. My name’s Sam. I was a-thinnin’ a loine o’ turnips—”
Both officers burst out laughing, and the younger one said:
“Good! 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.”
“I was a-thinnin’ a loine o’ turnips this mornin’ at ’alf-past seven on Mr. Hodge’s farm at Halvesham when one o’ these ’ere airyplanes come down among the swedes. I tells ’e to get clear o’ that, when the feller what gets out o’ the car ’e drahs a revowlver 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.”
Old Sam rubbed his chin.
“I sits under the Reverend David Pryce, Mister, and a good, God-fearin’ man he be. I took him a cookin’ o’ runner beans on’y yesterday. I works for Mr. Hodge, what owns Greenway Manor and ’as a stud-farm at Newmarket, they say.”