"Hands up!"
A chorus of "Deutschland, Deutschland, über Alles" was interrupted a shade abruptly, and four pairs of arms shot up into the air. The Boche does not shine in an emergency.
With a gesture the sergeant marshalled the captives against the wall, where they stood in a row, blinking and crestfallen. Their weapons having been collected and removed, they were allowed to put their hands down, and their captors regarded them quizzically.
"Any of you blokes speak English?" queried the sergeant, genially.
A smile of modest pride momentarily illumined one of the four wooden faces.
"Ja, I spik leedle English," ventured its owner.
"In-deed!" was the rejoinder; "and where did you learn it—in the Tottenham Court Road?"
The linguist simpered deprecatingly, with evident gratification over the good impression which he appeared to be making. It takes a lot to upset the complacence of the Boche.
"Been havin' a sing-song?" continued the sergeant, encouragingly.