The success which I seemed to have with my civilian disguise gradually led me to assume a bolder attitude. I began to stroll nonchalantly along the main roads and even entered public houses and tobacco shops, buying cigars and bottles of beer to drink with my meals. It was this boldness which later caused my downfall.

It was the afternoon of the third day and I was resting beside that fateful thoroughfare which runs from the village of Alt Pokrent to the town of Gadebusch, when one of those dazzling creatures which belonged to the mounted German Landpolizei rode up. I had passed two of them during the day without attracting any special attention, so I hoped to be able to ignore this one and coolly lit a cigar.

I was looking the other way, but I heard tremulously as he drew up his horse. I thought of flight, but a high bank stared me in the face. I glanced timidly around. He was curling his mustache and gazing at my feet.

“Guten Abend,” he began politely.

I wished him a “Guten Abend.”

Privately I wished him many other things.

“Are you—er—a traveller?” he began slowly.

“Nein, I am only going as far as Gadebusch.”

“Where is your home?”

“In Alt Pokrent,” I answered promptly.

Then he fired questions at me with bewildering rapidity.

“Work there?”

“Ja.”

“On the estate?”

“Ja.”

“Since when?”

“Seven months ago.”

“Cutting house or horses?”

“Horses.”

“Who owns the estate?”

I paused a moment and then thought of a Kossebade name.

“Herr Gottschalk.”

“Who’s the inspector?”

“Herr Warner.”

Then dramatically—“Where did you get those boots?”

I looked sheepishly at my tell-tale English boots—better than any to be had in Germany.

“I bought them from——”

“Ja, ja!” he broke in. “We know all about that. They’re English boots and the English don’t give boots to Germans. You told me a schön tale! I know every man, woman and child in Alt Pokrent. You’re a Pole or else an escaped Russian. Stand up! Stop smoking and take off your coat!”

I obeyed and gave him Warner’s cream-colored coat. Not in the pocket but in the lining, he found my wallet with a collection of keepsakes, including a photo of a French poilu, a small American flag, and my English Certificate of Attestation. He was quite puzzled.

“I don’t know,” he soliloquized, curling his mustache again. “You’re something on the wrong side of the war. I am going to hold you for an escaped prisoner. It will be better for you to tell me the truth.”

Convinced of his determination, I told him my story, and he took it down in a little note-book.

“I don’t blame you, Junger,” he said. “I know what it is to be homesick, but why don’t you English come to your senses and stop fighting us?”

It is my firm belief that the natives of Gadebusch had proclaimed a holiday in honor of my capture, for they were all standing out on the sidewalks when we entered, my humble self trudging along in front with my box of provisions and this gallant knight errant following, mounted on his black charger and armed to the teeth. Sword, spurs, revolvers, harness, and mustache were all polished to the highest degree. Indeed he reminded me of a sort of Don Quixote as he glared fiercely from side to side and replied majestically to the queries of the multitude in regard to my nationality with: “Engländer!”

In short, his pose suggested that unanswerable question: “Why should Germany tremble?”

I quite enjoyed the fun and grinned and stared brazenly back at the Gadebuschers. My gendarme was apparently bent on giving them all a good look at me, for he marched me up one street and down another until we had pretty well covered the town.

We ended up at the town jail; a charming old structure, overlooking from the ground-floor, a pig-pen, and from the upper stories, the ramshackle roofs of sundry adjacent houses. The landlord thoughtfully relieved me of my burden of provisions as I entered and assigned me to a cell on the second floor.