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Updated: October 29, 2025
In war, where the national interest is concerned, the individual is nothing. If he or she must be removed, puff! you snuff the offender out. Afterwards you can always pay or apologize, or do what is required." I listened in silence; I had no defence to offer in face of this deadly logic, the logic of the stronger man. Clubfoot produced a paper from his pocket.
Moreover the gout in his bad foot troubled him more and more, and he ceased to get much satisfaction from rolling around on a "flat wheel" and scaring people with his tracks. Wherefore Clubfoot deserted his old haunts and went down into a green valley, inhabited by bee-keepers and other peaceable folk, where he lived on locusts and honey and forgot the strenuous life.
The Englishman wasn't there, but they got three or four others they were looking for Fritz and another deserter included. I was nearly there myself!" I was always hearing references of this kind to my exploit. I was never spoken of except in terms of admiration, but the name of Clubfoot der Stelze excited only execration and terror. I lived in daily fear of a raid at Haase's.
Would the clock never strike? "I tell you frankly, Herr Doktor," I said in a voice that trembled with anxiety, "I cannot leave the Countess unprotected whilst we travel together to the hiding-places of the document. I only feel sure of her safety whilst she is near me...." Clubfoot bent his brows at me. "What do you suggest then?" he said very sternly.
But the gentleman was in a hurry; the gentleman always is; he could not wait for that old slowcoach of a Clubfoot to mature his plans for getting into England, securing the document, and getting out again.
We were having supper at one of the tables in the front room there were only a couple of customers, as it was so early when a man, a regular visitor of ours, came down the stairs hurriedly. He went straight over to Haase and spoke into his ear. "Mind yourself, Haase," I heard him say. "Do you know who had Kore arrested and shot? It was Clubfoot. There is more in this than we know.
Attached to the chain of the trap was a heavy pine chunk, and Old Clubfoot dragged the clog for many miles, leaving through the brush a trail easily followed, and lay down to rest in a thicket growing among a huddle of rocks. Hot upon the trail came two hunters, Wesley Wood and a Sclavonian whose name was something like Sakarovitch, and had been simplified to Joe Screech.
Clubfoot, still chuckling audibly, walked over to me. I thought he was going to shoot me, he came so straight and so fast, but it was only to get behind me and shut the door, driving me, as he did so, farther into the room. The door by which he had entered stood open. Without taking his eyes off me or deflecting his weapon from its aim, he called out: "Schmalz!"
It seemed to comfort Gallagher to know that he was going to have company on the long trip by the short route, and "misery likes company." The third man was brought in a few minutes later whose name was Hank Parrish, the fourth and last that day being Clubfoot George. They were all placed in the log cabin under a strong guard.
"There is a code of honour in our game, old man," he said, "and there are lots of men in the German secret service who live up to it. We give and take plenty of hard knocks in the rough-and-tumble of the chase, but ambush and assassination are barred." He took a deep breath and added: "But the man Clubfoot doesn't play the game!"
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