And if the British soldier appears incomprehensible to the nimble-minded French, one can readily perceive that to the slow and methodically-thinking German he must seem merely mad. The French marvel that he is never "serious"; the Boche is perplexed to find that Hymns of Hate and other laborious insults afford him the keenest possible enjoyment. The secret lies in Mr. Atkins's sense of humor, which is another way of saying his sense of proportion. He may be guilty of little aberrations such as dribbling a football in front of him as he advances with cold steel to the charge, but _au fond_ he has a pretty just sense of values. III--THE GERMANS WHO SANG "RULE BRITTANIA" At all events, his humor has the dry quality which connotes an even mind and temper, as the following incident will show. In the earlier days of the war, before the opposing armies in the West had burrowed into the soil and some freedom of movement was still possible, a patrol of three British soldiers under a sergeant were prowling abroad one night. Within disputed territory they espied a lighted window in a lonely farmhouse which they knew had been deserted by its owners. They approached it stealthily. The house was surrounded without challenge, and having posted his men at points which commanded the exits the sergeant crept forward to reconnoitre. Music and sounds of revelry were audible within, and the sergeant had no difficulty in discovering the presence of four German soldiers in the farmer's best sitting-room. The cellar had been looted, the piano commandeered, and four Teutonic voices were upraised in melody. The sergeant beckoned to the waiting figures outside, and four large but softly-treading men tiptoed delicately to the scene of the carousal. At a given signal the door was flung open and four rifles were levelled. "Hands up!" A chorus of "_Deutschland, Deutschland, über Alles_" was interrupted a shade abruptly, and four pairs of arms shot up into the air. The Boche does not shine in an emergency. With a gesture the sergeant marshalled the captives against the wall, where they stood in a row, blinking and crestfallen. Their weapons having been collected and removed, they were allowed to put their hands down, and their captors regarded them quizzically. "Any of you blokes speak English?" queried the sergeant, genially. A smile of modest pride momentarily illumined one of the four wooden faces. "_Ja_, I spik leedle English," ventured its owner. "In-_deed_!" was the rejoinder; "and where did _you_ learn it--in the Tottenham Court Road?" The linguist simpered deprecatingly, with evident gratification over the good impression which he appeared to be making. It takes a lot to upset the complacence of the Boche. "Been havin' a sing-song?" continued the sergeant, encouragingly. The other nodded. "Der Shermans vas always der beoble of singing," he observed, in faintly patronizing tones.