Hurrying through the "Swiss Village" and scarcely taking time to acknowledge the greetings of a Belgian lassie who waved her hand from a shop window as he passed, he entered the _Café Central_ and seating himself at one of the little round tables forthwith called for a drink. The barmaid approached him. "_M’sieur veut?_" she asked. "Gimme a glass of Scotch an’ soda," Jogman demanded. "Ees eet wiskie m’sieur desires?" she queried in broken English. "Yes—whiskey—big glass," said Jogman picturing the size with his two hands. "_Oui, m’sieur._" She filled his glass. He drank it thirstily and called for another. Several more followed their predecessors, and being now comfortably alight he proceeded up street, seeking new worlds to conquer. The butcher-shop door stood invitingly open. Jogman entered unsteadily; what maudlin idea was fermenting in his brain none but himself might say. The fat butcher, meataxe in hand and pencil behind his ear, approached to take his order. "_Bonjour, monsieur!_" he said. Jogman placed one hand upon the slab, the better to steady the shop which, ignoring the law of gravity, was reeling in most unshoply fashion. "Bone Dewar, yerself!" he cried, incensed at being addressed in an unintelligible language. "Why th’ hell can’t ye speak English—like a—white man?" How often we too have been unreasonably irritated by a foreign and incomprehensible tongue! Jogman’s sense of injustice was preternaturally keen just then. The butcher was a trifle alarmed at his attitude without in the least understanding the cause of complaint. "_Quest ce que vous voulez, monsieur?_" he demanded nervously. "Drop that hatchet!" cried his irrational customer, making a step forward. "Drop it, er I’ll drop you." The unfortunate shopkeeper grasped his weapon more firmly still, and stood tremulously on the defensive. "I’ll learn ye to do as ye’re told!" shouted Jogman, and seizing a large knife from the slab he rushed at the frightened man who ran screaming into the street, with Jogman in hot pursuit. The sight of a British soldier brandishing a meat knife and chasing a fellow citizen along the main street was terrifying in the extreme to the peaceful denizens of the town. They ran shrieking for help, bolting into their shops or houses, and barring the doors as though the devil himself with a regiment of imps on horseback were at their heels. Jogman had cleared the _Rue de Londres_ and in the pride of drunken conquest was about to attack the lesser streets, when the Military Police hove in sight. Much to his annoyance the disturbance interrupted Sergeant Honk in a monosyllabic conversation, which he was holding with a pretty French girl. He humped himself around the corner just in time to see the Sergeant of Police take the belligerent Jogman by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his breeches and heave him into a waiting ambulance.