"Excuse me, but can you tell me which is Hunter Street?" said the tall pleasant-looking man with the slightly foreign aspect.
"Hunter Street," I said, waving a vague hand, "lies over there. It is," I continued, fixing him with a stern look, "for constabulary purposes a chapel-of-ease to Bow Street."
He did not seem in the least perturbed.
"Ah!" he said, "a special constable, I suppose?"
I was only going on duty—theoretically I am never off duty—but I am missing no chances.
"Yes," I said, "I am. Do you mind telling me, quite between ourselves, you know, whether you are a German spy?"
He smiled slightly.
"Because if you are," I said, "perhaps you wouldn't mind holding on a minute. The strap of my truncheon has (tug) got fouled (tug) with my (tug) braces."
I got it out at last and stroked it lovingly. "I can't start before I'm ready," I said. "Rather neat bit of wood—what? Chose it myself at Bow Street. I take a 13½-ounce racquet, you know."
"You seem," he said, "to have given up caring whether I am a German spy or not."
"Your mistake," I said; "I was merely gaining time to size you up properly. Better take your pince-nez off. Broken glass is such a nuisance, don't you think?"
He ignored the friendly hint. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I am partly German."
"Show me the German part," I said, gripping the corrugations of my truncheon more tightly. "I'm a little pressed for time."
"And partly French," he went on.
"That's rather awkward," I said.
"And I was born in Russia."
"Worse and worse," I said.
"And spent practically the first twenty years of my life in Italy."
"This," I said, "is the absolute boundary. Yours is a case for the New Prize Courts."
"But you haven't formally arrested me yet," he said.
"True," I said, "I'm just coming to that part, but at the moment I've forgotten the opening movements of the half-nelson."
"My wife," he said musingly, "will be very annoyed. She's extremely English, you know."
"Look here," I said, "I really think I shall let you go, after all. So little of you is the enemy, so much the friend, that I don't care to take the responsibility of arresting you. But perhaps I ought to resign. Come and have a sandwich, I've just time for one, and we can talk it over."
"Right," he said, "we may as well. By the way, it was my grandparents on my mother's side who were French and German." Then, producing his warrant card, he said, "I am a Special too. My name's Briggs."
Some of our Soldiers, who were within seventy yards of the German trenches, hoisted an improvised target. The Germans did the same. Both sides signalled the result of the shooting.
First Tommy. "Get down! Do you want 'em to cop yer?"
Second Tommy. "Blimy! The perishers signalled my bull a miss, and I'm just agoin' to 'op over an' tell 'em abaht it."
The following reaches us from General Headquarters abroad:—
"Army Troop Order, No. 40.—Information has been received that many Field Service postcards are arriving at the G.P.O. without any address on them. The instructions printed on the cards that nothing is to be written on them does not apply to the address. O.C.'s are requested to bring this fact to the notice of all ranks. Oct. 12, 1914."
The discipline in the Army seems to be almost too good.
"The German Press is conducting a campaign to prove that Belgium was deceived by the English, who, it is asserted, depicted the Germans as sausages; hence the people were frightened when the German troops approached."—Yorkshire Evening Press.
The Scotch, however, are even less polite, The Aberdeen Evening Express announcing boldly—
"GORILLA FIGHTING ON THE BELGIAN FRONTIER."
