"And when they drop their nasty bombs, what will you do then, dearie?"
Our orders were to draw our truncheons, arrest them and convey them to the nearest police-station. I made this very clear.
"And what do you think they will do to them?"
I considered that they would get at least a month with hard labour, and no option of a fine.
"I should think so! The brutes—trying to take away the poor man's food! And as for that Crown Prince, when you get 'im, just you 'it 'im right over the 'ead with your truncheon!"
We are not allowed to hit over the head on ordinary occasions, but in the case of the Crown Prince attacking (and conceivably looting) our sausage factory, no doubt the rule would be relaxed. I undertook to follow her advice, and she left greatly relieved.
A CAPTURE.
Even without his khaki I should have known the wee lieutenant for an infant in arms, and I began to hope, directly I had been detached by our hostess to cover his left wing, that he was that happy warrior for whom I was seeking. He saw me looking at the red ribbon which adorned the left wing in question and which our gardener's wife told me the other day was "a poor trumpery sort of thing if Kitchener meant it as an honour to them."