He was now approaching the line between France and Germany, and Metz lay
only eleven miles beyond. The beauty of the clear cold day endured.
There was snow on the hills, but the brilliant sun touched it with a
luminous golden haze, and the crisp air was the breath of life.
He swung along at a great gait for one who walked. Life for months
without a roof had been hard, but it had toughened wonderfully those
whom it did not kill, and John with a magnificent constitution was one
of those who had profited most. He felt no weariness now although he had
come many miles.
About one o'clock in the afternoon he sat on a stone by the roadside and
ate with the appetite of vigorous youth good food from his knapsack.
While he was there a German sergeant, with about twenty men in wagons
going toward Metz, stopped and spoke to him.
"Hey, you on the stone, what are you doing?" asked the sergeant.
John cut off a fresh piece of sausage with his clasp knife and answered
briefly and truthfully:
"Eating."
The sergeant had 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.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182