“_Da_,” murmured the hunchback pointing toward the door, “There comes the old choo-choo!” “There?” objected the Austrian aghast. He pointed toward the clock. “That’s the way the train comes in. You’re forgetting yourself.” “_Was?_” exclaimed the hunchback on the defensive. “I know where the track lies--I came in that way. It’s just over there,” pointing again at the door, “back of the pond.” “Are you mad, _Mench_?”[12] retorted the Austrian, pointing again at the clock, “Didn’t you just hear it come in _that_ way?” Then followed one of the hottest little debates which I have ever heard. Both men grew into a frenzy, and only the ties of long friendship--constantly emphasized by the hunchback--prevented a resort to physical force. When the old warden came in half an hour later to tell us that danger was past, he found them stretched out together, haggling over a map of Gadebusch, drawn with string and bits of paper on the floor, a match stick representing the train. When I finally went up to my cell, I could still hear the disgusted voice of the hunchback: “_Aber_,[13] they don’t run locomotives over rye fields, _mein Lieber_!”[14] It was about noon of the fifth day and I was finishing the Book of Isaiah, when the guard came to take me away. My warden did not forget to exact a fee of six marks--being the amount of my hotel bill for the five days, at a mark a day, according to Gadebusch reckoning. FOOTNOTES: [11] Come down--lightning. [12] Man. [13] But. [14] My dear fellow. CHAPTER XIV _Kultur in a Train_ My new custodian was a fat, easy-going German, whom I found possessed some of the most radical of revolutionary ideas, but like a vast number of his comrades, too apathetic to trouble about carrying them out. We passed a little display of wealth in the form of a smartly dressed gentleman, lady, child and poodle dog, strolling down the street. “They’re the bandits!” said my guard, nudging me. “They eat the butter and eggs. We have to fight on dry bread and potatoes!” It was through him, too, that I first learned of Marshal Foch’s great offensive, though it was too young as yet to bring to us prisoners the Great Hope. We were seated in the corner of a _Gastwirtschaft_ talking over glasses of wine (for which he paid). The gramophone was playing: “_Puppchen, du bist mein Augenschatz_,” or the German “Tipperary.” He leaned over as if about to divulge a great secret. “_Deutschland ist kaput!_”[15] “_Was?_” I asked, astonished at the admission, for the German newspapers had never been more optimistic than during the last month. “_Deutschland ist kaput--kaput_,” he repeated, “absolutely _tot_![16] The soldiers will turn against the bandits soon, for they are starving! The food is finished--absolutely finished. We have _nichts--nichts--nichts_!”[17] and he put his thumbs together and jerked them quickly apart as though breaking a string.