“A state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as from twelve o’clock last night.”
“Ah!” said I. “It has come, then.” And I was surprised that I had forgotten all about the war, which was actually the cause of my presence there. I noticed with some curiosity that Hilderman looked out of the window with a strangely tense air, his lips firmly pressed together, his eyes wide open and staring. He was certainly awake now. But in a moment he turned to me with a charming smile.
“You know, I’m an American,” he said. “But this hits me—hits me hard. There’s a calm and peaceful, friendly hospitality about this island of yours that I like—like a lot. My own country reminds me too much of my own struggles for existence. For nearly forty years I fought for breath in America, and, but that I like now and again to run over and have a look round, you can keep the place as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been about here now for a good many years—not just this part, for this is nearly new to me, but about the country—and I feel that this is my quarrel, and I should like to have a hand in it.”
“Perhaps America may join in yet,” I suggested.
“Not she,” he cried, with a laugh. “America! Not on your life. Why, she’s afraid of civil war. She don’t know which of her own citizens are her friends and which ain’t. She’s tied hand and foot. She can’t even turn round long enough to whip Mexico. Don’t you ever expect America to join in anything except family prayer, my boy. That’s safe. You know where you are, and it don’t matter if you don’t agree about the wording of a psalm. If an American was told off to shoot a German, he’d ten to one turn round and say: ‘Here, hold on a minute; that’s my uncle!’”
“You think all the Germans in the States prefer their fatherland to their adopted country, or are they most of them spies?”
“Spies?” said Hilderman, “I don’t believe in spies. It stands to reason there can’t be much spying done in any country. Over here, for instance, for every German policeman in this country—for that’s all a spy can be—there are about a thousand British policemen. What chance has the spy? You don’t seriously believe in them, do you?” he added, smiling, as he offered me a Corona cigar.
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. I didn’t want to argue with my good Samaritan. “There is no doubt a certain amount of spying done; but, of course, our policemen are hardly trained to cope with it. I daresay the whole business is very greatly exaggerated.”
“You bet it is, my boy,” he replied emphatically. “Going far?” he asked, suddenly changing the subject.
“North of Loch Hourn,” I answered.