"What are you?" asked the Boche, in excellent English. "You have, I suppose, escaped from your cage. I warn you, you English dogs, to be more respectful to your superiors. When you are caught it shall go hard with you. That a common English swine shall call me Fritz."
"Nothin' to what you'll be called in a minute if you don't be'ave. Alf, I b'lieve the pore blighter thinks 'e's still in 'is own lines. What a sell for 'im."
"Come on, Bochie," said Alf, his finger on the trigger of the revolver. "Quick march."
"I will not move," declared the prisoner sullenly. "You cannot escape. There are men of mine on every side. Give me the revolver and I will see that you are not punished—much."
"Thank you for nothing," said Bill. "These 'ere are the British lines you're in, Fritz dear, an' you're our prisoner—see?"
The German, who still failed to grasp the situation, broke into a torrent of abuse and threats.
"Ain't 'e the little gentleman," said Alf in admiration.
Bill suddenly lost patience.
"'Ere," he said. "Let's kill 'im an' get another one. I can't stand 'ere arguin' all day. For one thing, the longer we stays away the bigger row we gets into. Now, Fritz, take yer choice. Will you come quiet, or will you 'ave a nice cheap funeral?"