"
"Born?"
"Offenbach!"
"Age?"
"Thirty!"
"Working?"
"Cafe Suisse!"
"Come from?"
"America!"
He tossed me a small handbook.
"Half-a-crown," he said; holding out his hand.
I gave it him. I was beginning to understand why I had not been kept very
long waiting.
"Clear out!" he said. "No questions, please. The book tells you
everything!"
I looked him in the face.
"I, too, have a rifle," I said boldly.
I found, then, that those blue eyes were not so mild as they seemed. His
glance seemed to cut me through and through.
"You understand what you are saying?" he asked.
"Yes!" I answered. "I want to join the No. 1 Branch."
"Why?"
"Because I am a German," I answered.
"Who told you about it?"
"A waiter named Hans in the Manhattan Hotel, New York."
I lied with commendable promptitude.
"Have you served?" he asked.
"At Mayence, eleven years ago," I answered.
"Where did you say that you were working?" he asked.
"Cafe Suisse!" I said.
It seemed to me that he had been on the point of entering my name in a
small ledger, which he had produced from one of the drawers by his side,
but my answer apparently electrified him.
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