"You're guest
or prisoner, whichever you choose to call it and we three are your
hosts or captors. My name is Carstairs and these two assistants of mine
are Wharton and Scott, distant cousins, that is to say, Yankees. It was
Scott who saved you."
The boy smiled faintly. He was in truth handsome with a delicate
fairness one did not see often among the Germans, who were generally
cast in a sterner mold.
"And I am Leopold Kratzek," he replied in good English.
"Kratzek," said John. "Ah, you're an Austrian. Now I remember there's an
Austrian field-marshal of that name."
"He is my father but he is in the East. My regiment was sent with an
Austrian corp to the western front. It seems that I am in great luck. My
wound is not mortal, but I should certainly have frozen to death out
there if one of you had not come for me."
"Scott went, of course," said Carstairs. "He's an American and naturally
a tuft-hunter. He's been making a long list of princely acquaintances
recently, and he was bound to bring in the son of a field-marshal and
make a friend of him, too."
"Shut up, Carstairs," said John. "You talk this way to hide your own
imperfections. You know that at heart every Englishman is a snob."
"Snobby is as snobby does," laughed Carstairs. "Now, Kratzek, lie back
again and we'll spread these blankets over you.
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