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“More difficult with the French?”
“Yes, by far.”
“I daresay your khaki uniform was very
useful to you.”
“Yes, rather.”
“I have just been admiring your greatcoat,
it almost looks like an officer’s; you are a
great swell! Did you kill your man, or did
you rob the dead—hyena fashion?”
“All our khaki uniforms are made in
Düsseldorf,” said the man with a certain pride.
“Now my dear Fuchs, or Katz, or
whatever may be your name—shall we call you
Fuchs, it fits you nicely. Now my dear
Fuchs, let us come to the little accident in
your career which gave us the pleasure of
your acquaintance.”
The man groaned loudly.
“No, Fuchs, I wouldn’t try that groan
again if I were you; it brought you such bad
luck last time you tried it. When a clever
man like you, Fox, gets himself up as a
Tommy he ought to know that an
Englishman does not groan when the doctor dresses
his wound; he never utters a sound, he
clenches his teeth if it comes to the worst—but
that is all. Nor would any self-respecting
Tommy ever dream of growing that dirty red
beard of yours; he would have had it shaved
off, and had a wash long before he ate that
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