On the whole, after weighing all the pros and cons, we decided
that our pronounced aversion to being shot had purely an altruistic
origin. It was a wicked, shameful loss to the human race. That
point was very clear to us. But there was the arrant stupidity of the
Germans to be reckoned with. They have such a distorted sense
of real values. Rummaging through my pockets during these
reflections, I fished up an advertising folder out of a corner where I
had tucked it when it was presented to me by Dr. Morse. The
outside read, "How We Lost Our Best Customer." Mechanically I
opened it, and there, staring back at me from big black borders on
the inside, were the two words, "HE DIED."

These ruminations upon matters spiritual were interrupted by the
strains from a brass band which went crashing by, while ten
thousand hobnailed boots of the regiment striking the pavements
in unison beat out time like a trip-hammer.

"Perhaps the Germans are leaving Brussels," whispered a
companion; "and wouldn't we grow wild or faint or crazy to see
those guards drop away and we should find ourselves free men
again!"

The passing music had a jubilating effect upon our guards, who
paraded gayly up and down the room. One simple, good-hearted
fellow harangued us in a bantering way, pointing out our present
sorry plight as evidence of the sad mistake we had made in not
being born in Germany. He felt so happy that he took a little
collection from us, and in due time returned with some bread and
chocolate and soda water. But even the soda water, as if adjusting
itself to the spiritlessness of the prisoners, refused to effervesce.