"Yes, sir; the Russians are coming up on the left flank, sir. They'll be here in a few hours. Raisuli has been arrested at Purley for stealing chickens. The army of Bollygolla is about ten miles out. No news of the field yet, sir."     

       The Prince brooded. Then he spoke, unbosoming himself more freely than was his wont in conversation with his staff.     

       "Between you and me, Pop," he cried impulsively, "I'm dashed sorry we ever started this dashed silly invading business. We thought ourselves dashed smart, working in the dark, and giving no sign till the great pounce, and all that sort of dashed nonsense. Seems to me we've simply dashed well landed ourselves in the dashed soup."     

       Captain von Poppenheim saluted in sympathetic silence. He and the prince had been old chums at college. A life-long friendship existed between them. He would have liked to have expressed adhesion verbally to his superior officer's remarks. The words "I don't think" trembled on his tongue. But the iron discipline of the German Army gagged him. He saluted again and clicked his heels.     

       The Prince recovered himself with a strong effort.     

       "You say the Russians will be here shortly?" he said.     

       "In a few hours, sir."     

       "And the men really wish to bombard London?"     

       "It would be a treat to them, sir."     

       "Well, well, I suppose if we don't do it, somebody else will. And we got here first."     

       "Yes, sir."     

       "Then—"     

       An orderly hurried up and saluted.     

       "Telegram, sir."     

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