tended to tie his shoe lace, to make an excuse for pausing.
"I'm sure I did," said Jack.
"What did he say?"
"Something about wishing he had a plate of metzel suppe. Of course I don't guarantee that pronunciation, but—"
"Oh, it'll do," said Tom, graciously. "Well, there's nothing very suspicious in that, though. I might wish for some wienerwurst, but that wouldn't make me a German spy."
"No. But take one other thing and you'll have to admit that there is some ground for my belief."
"What's the other thing, old top?" asked Tom, in imitation of some Englishmen.
"He was making drawings of the railroad line," asserted Jack.
"How do you know?"
"I saw him. He pretended to be looking at the carte de jour, and I caught a glimpse of a sheet of paper on which he was making certain marks. I'm sure he was sketching out something about the railroad, for use, maybe, in a future air raid."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Tom. "As a matter of fact, I don't doubt that the German secret agents know every foot of ground in and about Paris. They must have maps of this railroad
