"But you’ll never get through in that uniform. I can’t give you a change. Stay, I’ll write you a note; don’t wear the helmet." "No, sir: I’ll send it home to the kids, along with the Iron Cross." "You’ve deserved that, at any rate. Well, good luck to you. I wish you were one of my men." "Thank you, sir." Somewhere about midnight, Ginger, after certain amusing adventures with the sentries, knocked at the door of Bonnard’s cottage. There was some delay: then Bonnard opened the door, lifting a lighted candle. "Bong swar, m’sew," said Ginger. "What O!" "Ma foi!" ejaculated the Frenchman, throwing up his hands. "C’est Monsieur Ginjaire!" "Ah, wee, wee! Large as life! Give me some grub, m’sew: la soupe; more so; anything; haven’t had a good feed since I saw your jolly face last." "Oll raight! Mais c’est merveilleux, épatant! Entrez donc, m’sieur Ginjaire; ’ow d’you do! Shake ’and!" "Got the Iron Cross, m’sew," said Ginger with a grin, flicking the decoration with his finger-nail. "Par exemple!" cried Bonnard. "Ah! vous avez fait un prisonnier; vous avez pris un officier prussien, n’est-ce pas? Bravo! ’ip, ’ip, ’ooray!" There were growls through the closed door of the bedroom adjoining. "Messieurs, messieurs," shouted the Frenchman excitedly, "c’est que m’sieur Ginjaire est revenu, avec la croix de fer. Eveillez-vous, messieurs, pour le voir." "Shut up; taisez-vous!" called Harry, sleepily. "Let ’em wait till morning," said Ginger. "Give me some grub. Don’t want nothing else in all this wide world. I’ve got a fang, as you call it. J’ai fang, comprenny?" "Ah oui! Vous allez manger tout votre soûl." "Cheese’ll do for me ... What O!" The door had opened, and Harry appeared, blinking. "What’s all this? ... Great Scot! Where on earth ... I say, Ken, it’s Ginger!" "Shut up and go to sleep." "It’s Ginger, I tell you. Wake up, man. In a German uniform!" "Ginger, did you say?" cried Kenneth, joining him. "Well, I’m jiggered!" Ginger, a spoon in one hand, a hunk of bread in the other, grinned as they rushed to him, clapped him on the back, shook each an arm. "Don’t choke me, mates," he spluttered. "Let me finish this soup, and I’ll tell you a story as beats cock-fighting." "Tuck in. They starved you, I suppose--the brutes!" said Harry. "Let’s get our coats, Ken: it’s chilly. Bonnard will make up the fire." Presently, sitting around the fire, they listened to Ginger’s story.