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pot of marmalade. You were quite right
about that marmalade though, and you were
also quite welcome to the drink considering
the circumstances; but be careful, Fuchs,
don’t overdo it! You made an awful mess
of it when you did not stretch out your dirty
fingers for that Woodbine I offered you, and
that you did not feel like a cup of tea was an
equally bad shot, my poor Fuchs. I have
yet to live to learn that there exists a Tommy
who resists a Woodbine or a cup of tea. Your
greatcoat was all right, but, my dear Fuchs,
it was your head which got you into trouble,
and you were quite right to duck it under
your collar. Look, Anatole, at your friend
Fuchs, you who know les Anglais, did you
ever see an Englishman walk about with such
a head?”
Anatole’s eyes had become quite small,
and crouching like a big cat ready to spring,
he drew nearer and nearer to the spy.
“No, Anatole, not yet,” said the Doctor.
“We know, my dear Fox, that you are storing
a French bullet somewhere in your anatomy
which might have killed an honest man, but
by some oversight of the devil did you but
little harm. I have an uncomfortable
sensation that you intended to take up your
profession again in a very short time, and that
you would in all probability have succeeded
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