Dabnitz was puzzled.
“That is out of the question. Chautonville is back in the city. Within twenty minutes the order for advance will be given. Come, Poltneck; you will do very well when you see your soldiers—”
Boylan reflected swiftly at this point that the smile might be neither deep nor portentous—a single accomplishment, some stray refinement perhaps that had leaked back somehow to the people.
“No, no. I am afraid. I belong back among the wounded. I am very good there. This is not my place—”
“Will you require men to assist you to the trenches? Already I have talked too long.”
“Yesterday I was an anesthetic,” Poltneck wailed. “To-day I am to be a stimulant.”
Kohlvihr now came forward. “It is time,” he said.
“General,” said Dabnitz, “we have to deal with an unusual peasant, I am afraid.”
“It would not do for me to encroach upon the work of professionals,” the singer explained in dilemma.
“You see he is humorous,” Dabnitz observed.