“Lord!” he exclaimed, “isn’t it bad enough to be taken prisoner, without being taken by raw recruits that can’t put on their uniforms?”

The Reds flushed, and the younger, a sandy-haired, rat-faced youth, retorted angrily:  “Mebbe we ain’t strong on uniforms, beau,” he snarled, “but you’ve got nothing on us yet, that I can see.  You look pretty with your hands in the air, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” commanded the other Red.  He was the older man, heavily built, with a strong, hard mouth and chin, on which latter sprouted a three days’ iron-gray beard.  “Don’t you see he’s an officer?  Officers don’t like being took by two-spot privates.”

Lathrop gave a sudden start.  “Why,” he laughed, incredulously, “don’t you know—­” He stopped, and his eyes glanced quickly up and down the road.

“Don’t we know what?” demanded the older Red, suspiciously.

“I forgot,” said Lathrop.  “I—­I must not give information to the enemy—­”

For an instant there was a pause, while the two Reds stood irresolute.  Then the older nodded the other to the side of the road, and in whispers they consulted eagerly.

Miss Farrar laughed, and Lathrop moved toward her.

“I deserve worse than being laughed at,” he said.  “I made a strategic mistake.  I should not have tried to capture you and an army corps at the same time.”

“You,” she taunted, “who were always so keen on soldiering, to be taken prisoner,” she lowered her voice, “and by men like that!  Aren’t they funny?” she whispered, “and East Side and Tenderloin!  It made me homesick to hear them!  I think when not in uniform the little one drives a taxicab, and the big one is a guard on the elevated.”

“They certainly are very ‘New York,’” assented Lathrop, “and very tough.”

“I thought,” whispered Miss Farrar, “those from New York with the Red Army were picked men.”

“What does it matter?” exclaimed Lathrop.  “It’s just as humiliating to be captured by a hall-room boy as by a mere millionaire!  I can’t insist on the invading army being entirely recruited from Harvard graduates.”

The two Reds either had reached a decision, or agreed that they could not agree, for they ceased whispering, and crossed to where Lathrop stood.

“We been talking over your case,” explained the sergeant, “and we see we are in wrong.  We see we made a mistake in taking you prisoner.  We had ought to shot you dead.  So now we’re going to shoot you dead.”

“You can’t!” objected Lathrop.  “It’s too late.  You should have thought of that sooner.”

“I know,” admitted the sergeant, “but a prisoner is a hell of a nuisance.  If you got a prisoner to look after you can’t do your own work; you got to keep tabs on him.  And there ain’t nothing in it for the prisoner, neither.  If we take you, you’ll have to tramp all the way to our army, and all the way back.  But, if you’re dead, how different!  You ain’t no bother to anybody.  You got a half holiday all to yourself, and you can loaf around the camp, so dead that they can’t make you work, but not so dead you can’t smoke or eat.”  The sergeant smiled ingratiatingly.  In a tempting manner he exhibited his rifle.  “Better be dead,” he urged.