"Listen, Mein Herr! I have been one of STEINHAUER'S spies. He is the Master Spy and came over to England with the KAISER, and he stayed, I am told, at Buckingham Palace. But STEINHAUER is a fool, and I tell him so in my last letter. One day, a month ago, a gentleman dine at my table: he speak good English and wear London clothes, but I suspect him German, and when I see him eat I know. Some English officers also dine in the room, and he look at them--ach! as there were sour apples in his stomach. So I speak in German to Hans at the next table, and, when I give the bill, the gentleman point out a too-much charge for the butter he have not; I bend my head to read, and he whisper in my ear in German." "Ah!" I said. "I can guess the next part about the secret meeting and the false name and so on. But tell me how the KAISER missed his chance." "Well," he resumed, "I become a spy. My duty was to listen to English officers who dine at the Furioso, and to send reports to STEINHAUER through a cutter of hairs in Soho, who call himself Ephraim Smiley, but his right name is Johann Schnitzelbrod. One night three young officers dine at my table and talk much about the British Army. One say the Arsenal is weak, another that the Rangers cannot shoot for nuts, and the third that the Palace is sure to go down next Saturday. 'Aha!' I say to myself, 'the Army is bad, and they fear Zeppelins or revolution.' STEINHAUER will know which, and I shall get the five-pound note. So I send my report; but STEINHAUER is stupid and the five-pound note come not, and I say, 'Better luck on the following occasion.' "A week later a cavalry officer dine at my table alone, and he talk to me for company. He ask me if I follow horses, and I say, 'Yes, formerly, when they drew the bus.' Then he laugh, and ask whether I ever have what he call a flutter on a dead snip. I scratch my head, but Hans interpret, and so, as you English say, I tumble. I tell him I would like, but for me the dead snip have not yet deceased. He say, 'Put all your tips on Mutton Chop for the Cookingham Stakes,' and he give me a shilling. Presently Hans tell me that Mutton Chop is not an English food, but a horse. He say he know of what he call a bookie who is not a Welshman, and if Mutton Chop win, I multiply my savings one hundert times. "So I write to STEINHAUER in haste: he must advise the KAISER to put one hundred million marks on Mutton Chop, and the war will be paid for and something left over for poor Fritz. Then I take my savings from the bank and pawn my clothes, and much money goes to the bookie to back Mutton Chop. Well, the good Mutton Chop roll home--that is what Hans call it, and he is a racing-instructed; he has been waiter at Ascot, and once he go to see the City and South London. The same day come a letter from STEINHAUER that I am a _Schweinkopf_, and he shall advise the KAISER no such thing; and he dismiss me with notting.