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“I love the English,” said Anatole, “but
somehow I do not get on as well with this
one as I did with the others; they spoke
better French than he does.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said the Doctor,
“I think it is only that he is rather shy.
Don’t be so shy, Tommy,” he continued in
French, turning to the soldier. “Surely you
don’t want to disappoint your kind friends
here by forcing me to carry on our little
conversation in a language they don’t
understand. We know you were somewhat
stunned when the bridge was blown up;
maybe it is that which made you forget your
French. Now that your head is quite clear
again you will see it will all come back to you
quite nicely. But do pull down that collar
of your greatcoat, so that we may look at
your face while we talk; we all like the look
of an Englishman who has killed seven
Boches. Now tell me a little more of your
glorious past; I don’t expect you to tell the
truth, but you might try. We will talk about
the future by and by. Where did you pick up
that excellent French of yours?” The man’s
eyes wandered restlessly round the church.
“He doesn’t speak a word of French,”
explained Anatole.
“Answer!” said the Doctor, his dark eyes
rivetted upon the soldier.
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