His impersonation on the liner, shrewd, slangy, coarse-grained,
patronizing, had been a triumph. Then, suddenly, I remembered a murdered
boy beside whom I had knelt that morning, and my brief flicker of homage
died.
"You think I can't do it, eh?" He had misinterpreted my expression.
"Well, let me tell you I did just a year ago and got over without a
scratch. To get across no-man's-land you have to play dead, as you
Yankees put it; you lie flat on the ground and pull yourself forward a
foot at a time and keep your eye on the search-lights so that when they
come your way you can drop on your face and lie like a corpse until
they move on. It's not pleasant, of course; but in this game we take our
chances. And now I think I'll be claiming my winnings if you please."
I straightened in my chair, recognizing a crisis. With his last phrase
he had shed the bearing of Mr. John Van Blarcom, and from the disguise
all in an instant there emerged the Prussian, insolent, overbearing,
fixing us with a look of challenge, and addressing us with crisp
command.
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