you got to be an American; and your people over
there must be German citizens."

"Zey are Zherman _slaves_--yess! Citizens--no! See! When still I am a
leetle boy, I must learn ze Zherman. I must go to ze Zherman school. My
pappa have to pay fine when hees cheeldren speak ze French. My little
seester when she sing ze Marsellaise--she must go t'ree days to ze
Zherman zhail!"

"You mean to prison?" Tom asked. "Just for singing the Marsellaise! Why,
the hand-organs play that where I live!"

"Ah, yess--Americ'! In Alsace, even before ze war--you sing ze
Marsellaise, t'ree days you go to ze zhail. You haf' a book printed in
ze French--feefty marks you must pay!" He waived his cigarette, as if
it might have been a deadly sword, and hurled it over the rail.

"After Germany took Alsace-Lorraine away from France," said Tom,
unmoved, "and began treating the French people that way, I should think
lots of 'em would have moved to France."

"Many--yess; but some, no. My pappa had a veenyard. Many years ziss
veenyard is owned by my people--my anceestors. Even ze village is name
for my family--Lateur. You know ze Franco-Prussian War--when Zhermany
take Alsace-Lorraine--yess?"

"Yes," said Tom.

"My pappa fight for France. Hees arm he lose. When it is over and Alsace
is lost, he haf' lost more than hees arm. Hees spirit! Where can he go?
Away from ze veenyard? Here he hass lived--always."

"I understand," said Tom.

"Yess," said Frenchy with great satisfaction. "Zat is how eet is--you
will understand. My pappa cannot go. Zis is hees _home_. So he
stay--stay under ze Zhermans. Ah! For everything, _everything_, we must
pay ze tax. Five hundred soldiers, zey keep, _always_--in zis little
village--and only seven hundred people. Ziss is ze way. Ugh! Even ze
name zey change--Dundgart! Ugh!"

"I don't like it as well as Lethure," said matter-of-fact Tom.

Frenchy laughed at Tom's pronunciation. "Zis is how you say--Le-teur.
See? I will teach you ze French."

"How did you happen to come to America?" Tom asked.

"Ah! I will tell you," Frenchy said, as a grim, dangerous look gathered
in his eyes. "You are--how many years, my frien'!"

"I'm seventeen," said Tom.

"One cannot tell wiz ze Americans," Frenchy explained. "Zey grow so
queeck--so beeg. In Europe, zey haf' nevaire seen anyzing like zis--zis
army," he added, indicating with a sweeping wave of his hand the groups
of lolling, joking soldiers.

"They make fun of you a lot