He looked round. There were a lot of men lying there, and others in khaki and white overalls were busy amongst them. He sat up and rubbed his head, and said: “Hi, mister, where be I now?” Some one laughed, and a young man came up and said: “Well, old thing, you were very nearly in hell. Who the devil are you?” Some one else came up, and the two of them were discussing him. One of them said: “He’s quite all right. He was only knocked out. Better take him to the colonel. He may be a spy.” The other came up, and touched his shoulder, and remarked: “Can you walk, uncle?” He replied: “Ay, I can walk all right.” “That’s an old sport!” The young man took his arm and helped him out of the room, into a courtyard. They entered another room, where an elderly, kind-faced officer was seated at a desk. The officer looked up, and exclaimed: “Good God! Bradshaw, do you know who you’ve got there?” The younger one said, “No. Who, sir?” “By God! It’s Paul Jouperts!” exclaimed the colonel. “Paul Jouperts! Great Scott!” The old officer addressed himself to Sam. He said: “Well, we’ve got you once more, Paul. We shall have to be a little more careful this time.” The young officer said: “Shall I detail a squad, sir?” “We can’t shoot him without a court-martial,” replied the kind-faced senior. Then Sam interpolated: “Look’ee here, sir. I’m fair sick of all this. My name bean’t Paul. My name’s Sam. I was a-thinnin’ a line of tarnips—” Both officers burst out laughing, and the younger one said: “Good! damn good! Isn’t it amazing, sir, the way they not only learn the language, but even take the trouble to learn a dialect?” The older man busied himself with some papers. “Well, Sam,” he remarked, “you shall be given a chance to prove your identity. Our methods are less drastic than those of your Boche masters. What part of England are you supposed to come from? Let’s see how much you can bluff us with your topographical knowledge.” “Oi was a-thinnin’ a loine o’ tarnips this morning at ’alf-past seven on Mr. Dodge’s farm at Halvesham, when one o’ these ’ere airyplanes come roight down among the swedes. I tells ’ee to get clear o’ that, when the feller what gets owt o’ the car, ’e drahs a revowler and ’e says, ‘You must ’company I—’” “Yes, yes,” interrupted the senior officer; “that’s all very good. Now tell me—Where is Halvesham? What is the name of the local vicar? I’m sure you’d know that.” Old Sam rubbed his chin. “I sits under the Reverend David Pryce, mister, and a good God-fearin’ man he be. I took him a cookin’ o’ runner-beans on’y yesterday. I works for Mr. Dodge what owns Greenway Manor and ’as a stud-farm at Newmarket they say.” “Charles Dodge?” asked the younger officers. “Ay, Charlie Dodge. You write and ask ’un if he knows old Sam Gates.” The two officers looked at each other, and the older one looked at Sam more closely. “It’s very extraordinary,” he remarked. “Everybody knows Charlie Dodge,” added the younger officer.