J. S. MACHAR
on to it, lay down on his back, folded his hands under his head and went to sleep.
The doctor acquainted me with the result of his enquiry. An Englishman, a real Englishman. He had lived at Mödling for the last eighteen years. When the German naval victory over Admiral Jellicoe had recently been celebrated by hanging out flags, he had pulled down one of these flags at Mödling and trampled on it in his anger,—he said it was not a victory but a defeat of the Germans, the Germans had wanted to break through, but had been driven back again, and so it was no victory. And it was for having trampled upon the flag that he was with us. The doctor had arranged to take English lessons with him, he himself would be one of his pupils, and was there anybody else who wanted to join in?
Mr. Fels came forward.
The Englishman slept and slept. The doctor was impatient,—he wanted to begin at once. He woke the Englishman, offered him a cigarette; the Englishman took it, thrust it into his breast-pocket and went on sleeping.
"We'll let him sleep" remarked Mr. Fels "these Englishmen are all more or less without manners."
We took our turn at walking, talked, whistled,—the Englishman slept.
Papa Declich received a card from the Rossau barracks. From Dušek. Dušek asked whether under my bed, that once was his, there was any sign of his winter boots. Papa Declich studied the card, and suddenly gave an artful smile.
"What is it?"
"Boots,—why boots? He wants to know whether we are here, and how we are getting on. We will write to him at once,—in a case like this we need not wait till Sunday."
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