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Upon his shoulders the front rank bore a large box, blackish, well-made, obviously very weighty, which box it set down with a grunt of relief hard by the cabinet. The first thing the shifty-eyed Hollander did was to exclaim Gottverdummer. The first thing the whiskery Belgian did was to grab his paillasse and stand guard over it.
The Zulu, remarking "Muh" floated hingingly to a sitting position and was saluted by "Lie down you Gottverdummer Polaker, I'll get you next." In spite of which he gathered himself to rise upward, catching as he did so a swish of The Hollander's pipe-length which made his cigarette leap neatly, holder and all, upward and outward.
Whereat the frightened youth in black puttees sidled over and explained with a pathetic, at once ingratiating and patronising, accent. "He is not nasty. He's a good fellow. He's my friend. He wants to say that it's his, that box. He doesn't speak French." "It's the Gottverdummer Polak's box," said the Triangular Man exploding in Dutch.
"If you put your shoes un-der your mat-tress" Monsieur Auguste's voice said, "you'll sleep well." I thanked him for the suggestion, and did so. I reclined in an ecstasy of happiness and weariness. There could be nothing better than this. To sleep. "Got a gottverdummer cigarette?" Harree's voice asked of Fritz. "No bloody fear," Fritz's voice replied coolly.
"Oui, Oui, Oui, Assez!" And Bill The Hollander hugely turned to The Zulu, stepping accurately to the paillasse of that individual, and demanded "And you, you Gottverdummer Polaker, do you want t' fight?" at which The Zulu gently waved in recognition of the compliment and delicately and hastily replied, between slow puffs "Mog."
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