a broad, red and merry face, and facing a man of good
humor he was not offended.

"So I see," he said, "but that wasn't what I meant."

John, without another word, took out his passport, handed it to him and
went on eating. The sergeant examined it, handed it back to him and
said:

"Correct."

"I show it to everybody," said John. "When a man speaks to me I don't
care who he is, or what he is, I hand it to him. I, Jean Castel, as you
see by the name on the passport, don't want trouble with anybody."

"And a wise fellow you are, Castel. I'm Otto Scheller, a sergeant in the
service of his Imperial Majesty and the Fatherland."

"You look as if you had seen much of war, Sergeant Scheller, but I am a
dealer in horses and I am happiest where the bullets are fewest."

"It's an honest confession, but it does not bespeak a high heart."

"Perhaps not, but sometimes a horse-dealer is more useful than a
soldier. For instance, the off horse of the front wagon has picked up a
stone in his left hind foot, and if it's not taken out he'll go lame
long before you reach Metz."

"Donnerwetter! But it's true. You do know something about horses and
you have an eye in your head. Here you, Heinrich, take that stone out,
quick, or it won't be good for you!"

"And the right horse of the third wagon has glanders. The swelling is
just beginning to show below the jaw. It's contagious, you know. You'd
better turn him loose, or all your horses will die."

"Donner und blitzen! See Fritz, if it's true. It's so, is it? Then
release the poor animal as Castel says, and put in one of the extras.
See, you Castel, you're a wizard, you hardly glanced at the horses, and
you saw what we didn't see, although we've been with them all day."

"I've grown up with horses. It's my business to know everything about
them, and maybe your trade before the war didn't bring you near them."

Scheller threw back his great head and laughed.

"If a horse had approached where I worked," he said, "much good beer
would have been spilt. I was the head waiter in a restaurant on the
Unter den Linden. Ah, the happy days! Oh, the glorious street! and here
it's nothing but march, march, and shoot, shoot! Three of my best
waiters have been killed already. And the other lads are no horsemen
either. That big Fritz over there made toys, Joseph drove a taxicab,
August was conductor on a train to Charlottenberg, and Eitel was porter
in a hotel. We're all from Berlin, and will y