"What's the use of losing tempers?" I asked Captain Jacques Daudet, who
had captured us.
He sat on my knees, with his pistol pressed against my chest. "Why not
regard the whole thing as a joke? You've done your best and nobody can
blame you. Besides, what can possibly happen? What do you suppose
they'll do to us?"
He shrugged his shoulders and his little cold blue eyes met mine.
"You will all be shot, of course," he answered. "After that..."
He shrugged his shoulders again. But he cast no gloom; for Jeremy kept
the lot of us, French too, excepting Daudet, in roars of laughter for
ten miles until we reached temporary headquarters, where a born
gentleman in a peaked red cap with gold on it sat on a camp-stool
directing things.
He recognized Grim at the first glance and knew him for an American in
British service. He looked Grim in the eye and smiled. We told our
story in turns, interrupting one another and being interrupted by Rene.
The officer turned on the banker savagely, ordered him sent to the rear,
and smiled at Grim again.
Then he picked up the banker's belongings, including the two packages,
and tossed them after him with an air of utter contempt.
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