"One minute," said Dick. "The writing is in Turkish characters." "That is quite evident," remarked the Major suavely; "but that does not alter the text of the communication." "You ought to know that all correspondence between belligerents is in French, Herr Major," said the Sub. "Under the circumstances I decline to have any truck with it." "Truck?" asked the German in a puzzled tone. "What does that mean?" "That I won't sign." "Then there are other English officers who would be only too pleased to do so," suggested the Major tentatively. "It's my opinion you're trying another of your dirty tricks," continued Dick. "No, don't get excited," he added, as the German's hand flew to his sword-hilt. "That proves what I say. I think we may as well come to an understanding." The German backed and said a few words to his companion. It was enough to confirm Dick's suspicions, for the subaltern also laid his hand upon his sword. With a well-directed blow the Sub planted his clenched fist squarely upon the point of the Major's chin. With hardly a sound he fell senseless upon the pile of straw. [Illustration: "WITH A WELL-DIRECTED BLOW DICK PLANTED HIS CLENCHED FIST SQUARELY UPON THE POINT OF THE MAJOR'S CHIN"] Out flashed the other German's sword. Rashly he raised the blade to deliver a cut. Had he used the point the result might have been different, for before the blow could fall the stalwart British officer gripped him round the waist, then with a sudden heave threw him headlong upon the floor. The back of his head came in contact with the stone paving, and with a groan he lost consciousness. "Buck up, Farnworth!" exclaimed Dick. "Pull that fellow's coat off and see how it fits you. We'll borrow these gentlemen's uniforms and see what happens." CHAPTER X A Bid for Freedom "By Jove, Farnworth, I little thought that I should have to undergo the humiliation of wearing this shameful uniform!" exclaimed Dick, as, attired in the tunic, greatcoat, trousers, and long boots of the German Major, he disdainfully shook himself. Circumstances compelled him to buckle on the sword, but the binoculars he, somewhat rashly, discarded as an encumbrance. "Nearly ready? Farnworth, I'm not paying you a compliment when I say you look a proper swaggering Prussian officer of the von Forstner type with that insipid little moustache of yours. It's my beard that worries me. Hello! Good business! Here's a pair of pocket scissors in this rascal's tunic. You might clip off my ragged whiskers as close as you possibly can--leave the moustache. Hurry for all you're worth, for time's precious!" The midshipman set to work with a will to remove the six weeks' growth of beard from his superior officer's face, for during the period of incarceration they had been unable to shave. Farnworth stood back a pace and surveyed his handiwork in the upslanting rays of the lamp set upon the floor.