"No," I said, "I don't."
Blenkin threw me a suspicious glance. "Why not?" he asked.
"Too many assumptions," I said.
Blenkin bridled indignantly. It was on the tip of his tongue to charge
me with being a pro-German. He controlled himself and rang a bell. "I
shall hold to my own opinion," he remarked with some asperity.
The prisoner, his escort and the interpreter were marched in. Adolf
Hans Pumpenheim created the customary diversion by turning to the
right on the command, "Left turn," and the sergeant-major made the
customary comments, undeterred by the prisoner's ignorance of English.
The imaginary public filed in and occupied the vacant stools.
When this bustle had subsided, the finding and the sentence were read
by Blenkin and duly translated by the interpreter. Pumpenheim was
quite impassive, and maintained his composure throughout the small
financial transaction which followed. He counted out his notes with an
air of fatalism. Having obtained a receipt for the fine he made us a
little bow and turned to leave the court.
"One moment," said Major Blenkin.
"_Einen Augenblick_," echoed the interpreter. Pumpenheim faced about
and stood to attention.
Blenkin cleared his throat. "I will not dwell upon the moral aspect of
your case," he said. The prisoner's features expressed neither relief
nor surprise, but polite inquiry. Blenkin, slightly ruffled, enlarged
upon the heinous nature of the crime and the leniency of the sentence.
Finally he produced his masterpiece of comparison--the French peasant,
the German officer, the attempted bribe, the execution. When the
last grim lines of the imaginary history had been translated for him,
Pumpenheim felt some observation on his part to be called for.
"So-o?" he said, "so-o?"
But I heard incredulity in his voice. Blenkin read it in his face. The
prisoner did not believe a word of the tale. He was indifferent to the
homily.
Blenkin, defeated, leaned back in his chair. "I give it up," he said.
"You have a try at him."