He was but a boy, and his shoulder-straps were not ten days old; but old
Jacob Oertler's heels came together with a click that would have been
loud, but that he wore waiter's slippers instead of the field-shoes of
the soldier.

The Officier looked at me, for I stood at attention.

"Soldier?" said he. And he spoke sharply, as all the babe-officers
strive to do.

I bowed, but my bow was not that of the Oberkellner of the Prinz Karl
that I am now.

"Of the war?" he asked again.

"Of three wars!" I answered, standing up straight that he might see the
Iron Cross I wear under my dress-coat, which the Emperor set there.

"Name and regiment?" he said quickly, for he had learned the way of it,
and was pleased that I called him Hauptmann.

"Jacob Oertler, formerly of the Berlin Husaren, and after of the
Intelligence Department."

"So," he said, "you speak French, then?"

"Sir," said I, "I was twenty years in France. I was born in Elsass. I
was also in Paris during the siege."

Thus we might have talked for long enough, but suddenly his face