of his), “you'll take parole, and go back to America and invent another Zigler, a trifle heavier in the working-parts—I would. We've got more prisoners than we know what to do with as it is,” he says. “You'll only be an additional expense to me as a taxpayer. Think of Schedule D,” he says, “and take parole.”
' “I don't know anything about your tariffs,” I said, “but when I get to Cape Town I write home for money, and I turn in every cent my board'll cost your country to any ten-century-old department that's been ordained to take it since William the Conqueror came along.”
' “ But, confound you for a thick-headed mule,” he says, “this war ain't any more than just started! Do you mean to tell me you're going to play prisoner till it's over?”
' “That's about the size of it,” I says, “if an Englishman and an American could ever understand each other.”
' “But, in Heaven's Holy Name, why?” he says, sitting down of a heap on an ant-hill.
' “Well, Cap,” I says, “I don't pretend to follow your ways of thought, and I can't see why you abuse your position to persecute a poor prisoner o' war on his!“
' “My dear fellow,” he began, throwing up his hands and blushing, “I'll apologise.”
' “But if you insist,” I says, “there are just one and a half things in this world I can't do. The odd half don't matter here; but taking parole, and going home, and being interviewed by the boys, and giving lectures on my single-handed
