Wilhelmstrasse, Fritz, and they want to have you where they can keep their eyes on you. Sorry, you know."
The free-born instincts of Henry J. Sherman would not be downed longer. He had witnessed the little tragedy of the German barber with growing ire, and now he stepped up to the sergeant truculently.
"Seems to me you're not giving Fritz here a square deal, if you want to know what I think," he blustered. "Now, in my country" The sergeant turned on him sharply.
"Who are you—and what are you doing in Gib?" he snapped. A moan from Mrs. Sherman, who threw herself in her daughter's arms.
"Kitty, your father's gone and got himself arrested again!"
"Who am I?" Sherman echoed with dignity. "My name, young fellow, is Henry J. Sherman, and I live in Kewanee, Illynoy. I'm an American citizen, and you can't"
"Your passports—quick!" The sergeant held out his hand imperiously.
"Oh, that's all right, young fellow; I've got 'em, all right." Kewanee's leading light be-
