“No?” I said. “No, the Huns were beaten at Chalons in A.D. 453. You have no right to call us Huns. That is your Northcliffe Press your hate campaign; we are men the same as you.” And it was quite useless to point out that the average soldier applies the nickname “Hun” or “Boche” or “Jerry” in very much the same way as we call the Scotch “Jocks” and the Frenchmen “Froggies.” The censor would not see it. “You think we are all barbarians,” he maintained. “It is your hate campaign, and we are not Huns; the Huns were beaten in 453 at Chalons by the Romans.” East of the Rhine there is not much sense of humour. And indeed, considering the way in which the Kaiser has compared himself to Attila, our warders were peculiarly sensitive on this point. And they always approached it with that strange Teuton seriousness that is for ever hanging over the crags of the ridiculous. At Karlsruhe, on the preceding Christmas, a certain officer, who had spent most of the afternoon beside a bottle, in the middle of a camp concert arrogated to himself the right to play a leading part. And leaping on the stage, he had for the space of half an hour regaled the audience with an exhilarating exhibition that contained many good-humoured but forceful references to his “sweet friend the enemy.” Unfortunately a German censor was present, and the next morning the officer was testily buttonholed by the sleuthhound. “Captain Arnold,” said the censor, “I do not wish to make any trouble between you and us, but you said last night many things that were most offensive.” Captain Arnold, whose memories of the preceding evening were shrouded in a mist of cocktails, endeavoured to be jocular. “Oh, no, surely not? Not offensive; come now, not offensive.” “Oh, yes, indeed they were; most offensive, Captain Arnold. You called us Huns.” The gallant officer realised that he had been indiscreet, and saw that only one way lay open to him. “Hun,” he said. “But why not, that’s what you call yourselves, isn’t it?” The censor looked astonished, and aggrieved. “But surely, Captain Arnold, you know what is a Hun?” “Not exactly, no.” “Very good. I will show you.” The next day the censor appeared bearing a history of Germany in three volumes. “Now, Captain Arnold,” he said, “you will find here all there is to know. It is quite simple; no doubt you will be able to borrow a German dictionary, so that you can look up the words. You will find all about it.” For three days Captain Arnold kept the books, and then returned them with many thanks and a promise not to repeat his insults. “I thought you would understand,” said the German censor. “It is only ignorance on your part that makes you call us Huns; and now you will tell your comrades, and they will understand too.” And the little man trotted off, happy in the thought that his race had emerged from the examination triumphantly vindicated. CHAPTER VIII OUR GENERAL TREATMENT