The Penguin Book of First World War Stories by None, Anne-Marie Einhaus

They’d not have got value that tuk me.’ Toomey’s face was all one wink. To value himself on his courage would never enter his head. It was the sense of the giant intellect within that filled him with triumph.
    I inspected the bulging eyes of the dead. ‘Did you strangle him sitting?’ I asked.
    â€˜Not at all. Amn’t I just after tradin’ the dog for him?’ Then, in the proper whisper, Toomey made his report:
    â€˜Ye’ll remember the whillabalooin’ there was at meself in the cellar. Leppin’ they were, at the loss of the tea. The end of it was that “I’m goin’ out now,” said I, “to speak to a man,” said I, “about a dog,” an’ I quitted the place, an’ the dog with me, knockin’ his nose against every lift of me heel. I’d a grand thought in me head, to make them whisht thinkin’ bad of me. Very near where the lad Schofiel’ is, I set out for Germ’ny, stoopin’ low to get all the use of the fog. Did you notus me, Sergeant?’
    â€˜Breaking the firewood?’ I said.
    â€˜Aye, I med sure that ye would. So I signalled.’
    Now I perceived. Toomey went on. ‘I knew, when I held upthe dog on the palm of me hand, ye’d see where I was, an’ where goin’. Then I wint on, deep into th’ East. Their wire is nothin’ at all; it’s the very spit of our own. I halted among ut, and gev out a notus, in English an’ German, keepin’ well down in the fog to rejuce me losses. They didn’t fire – ye’ll have heard that. They sint for the man with the English. An’, be the will o’ God, he was the same man that belonged to the dog.’
    â€˜â€œHans,” says I, courcheous but firm, “the dog is well off where he is. Will you come to him quietly?”
    â€˜I can’t jus’ give ye his words, but the sinse of them only. “What are ye doin’ at all,” he says, “askin’ a man to desert?”
    â€˜There was serious trouble in that fellow’s voice. It med me ashamed. But I wint on, an’ only put double strength in me temptin’s. “Me colonel,” I told him, “is offerin’five pounds for a prisoner. Come back with me now and ye’ll have fifty francs for yourself when I get the reward. Think over ut well. Fifty francs down. There’s a grand lot of spendin’ in that. An’ ye’ll be wi’ the dog.” As I offered him each injucement, I lifted th’ an’mal clear of the fog for two seconds or three, to keep the man famished wid longin’. You have to be crool in a war. Each time that I lowered the dog I lep’ two paces north, under the fog, to be-divvil their aim if they fired.
    â€˜â€œAch, to hell wi’ your francs an’ your pounds,” says he in his ag’ny. “Give me the dog or I’ll shoot. I see where you are.”
    â€˜â€œI’m not there at all,” says I, “an’ the dog’s in front of me bosom.”
    â€˜Ye’ll understan’, Sergeant,’ Toomey said to me gravely, ‘that last was a ruse. I’d not do the like o’ that to a dog, anny more than yourself.
    â€˜The poor divvil schewed in his juice for a while, very quiet. Then he out with an offer. “Will ye take sivinty francs for the dog? It’s the whole of me property. An’ it only comes short be five francs of th’ entire net profuts ye’d make on the fiver, an’ I comin’ with you.”
    â€˜â€œI will not,” says I, faint and low. It was tormint refusin’ the cash.
    â€˜â€œWon’t
annythin’
do ye,” says he in despair, “but a live wan?”
    â€˜â€œDepinds,” says I pensively, playin’ me fish. I held up the dog for a second again, to keep his sowl workin’.
    â€˜He plunged, at the sight of the creature. “Couldn’t ye do with a