"Oignons, old boy," spluttered the latter. "Rognons are kidneys."
"What the dickens does that matter?" demanded Hugh. "Vous comprenez, mon Colonel, n'est-ce-pas? Vive la France! En-bas les Boches! Nous avons crashé."
The gendarme shrugged his shoulders with a hopeless gesture, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears. Of course this large Englishman was mad; why otherwise should he spit in the kidneys? And that is what he continued to state was his form of amusement. Truly an insane race, and yet he had fought in the brigade next to them near Montauban in July '16—and he had liked them—those mad Tommies. Moreover, this large, imperturbable man, with the charming smile, showed a proper appreciation of his merits—an appreciation not shared up to the present, regrettable to state, by his own superiors. Colonel—parbleu; eh bien! Pourquoi non?…
At last he produced a notebook; he felt unable to cope further with the situation himself.
"Vôtre nom, M'sieur, s'il vous plait?"
"Undoubtedly, mon Colonel," remarked Hugh vaguely. "Nous crashons dans—"
"Ah! Mais oui, mais oui, M'sieur." The little man danced in his agitation. "Vous m'avez déjà dit que vous avez craché dans les rognons, mais je désire votre nom."
"He wants your name, old dear," murmured Jerry, weakly.
"Oh, does he?" Hugh beamed on the gendarme. "You priceless little bird! My name is Captain Hugh Drummond."
