reminiscing over reckless supper-parties in the near-by town.

Inside the quartermaster building a bespectacled youth and a red-faced corporal stood behind a rough plank counter on which were articles of clothing. Goodwin handed the paper to the corporal, who passed it to the youth with spectacles.

"Size blouse ya wear?" asked the corporal.

Goodwin knew; he wasn't to be tricked into accepting ill-fitting garments. "Blouse, thirty-eight; underclothes, thirty-six; hat, seven and a quarter

"Matter a damn about that, buddy. I asked ya what size blouse you wore.

"I wouldn't let him call me buddy," Hawthorne seriously advised Goodwin. "I'd tell 'im the story of the apple and the "

"Hey, let them pants alone," admonished the youth to Hawthorne, who was examining the stack of breeches on the counter. But Hawthorne imperturbably

VOL. LXXVII.—3

continued: "Git a good pair while you're at it, soldier. Here" He drew a pair of whip-cord breeches from the pile and handed them to Goodwin. "Regular officer's britches, and they're jist your size. Now we'll pick out a blouse."

Half an hour later the pair walked out of the building, enjoying the luxury of cigarettes. "How do I look?" asked Goodwin.

"Well, the hat's ridin' a little high an' the britches look like they was full of bricks, but the coat an' leggin's fit you fine." Hawthorne regarded him closely. "Pull up the britches and tear the band outa your hat an' you'll look like a Jigadier Brindle."

Goodwin unbuttoned his new blouse and pulled at his breeches until there was an unbroken line between the end of his spiral puttees and his hips. "Guess I'll throw away that rain-coat," he said, tearing out his hatband.

Hawthorne took the rain-coat from him,

25

drawing off in an attitude of surprise. "Soldier, you actually pain me. Why, that there rain-coat's good for forty francs any place in this country."

"You mean sell it?" asked Goodwin. "Sell it? Not if we seen some pore ol' woman with ten orphans standin' out in the rain without anything to eat an' no place to go. No, we'd give it away then. But if we don't see this ol' woman, the forty francs is ourn."

Goodwin chuckled. "An' this extra pair of shoes ought to bring fifty."

Before the thought of their departure, its risks, the danger of arrest, the highkeying sensation of travelling alone through foreign countries, outwitting M. P.'s and officers, and the prospect of arriving again among their own, everything else dissolved in a mist. On other days the meals were grumbled over, but to-day the dinner's bad qualities, the lumps of tomato, the uncooked pieces of beef, were unnoticed. And in high excitement, they dipped their mess-kits in the lukewarm water, dried them on a borrowed towel, and marched busily to the extreme end of the camp, vaulted a wall, and were on the highroad, bursting with deviltry and joy.

This highroad would have conquered less robust spirits. For miles ahead of them and behind it ran a straight course. The mud was an inch thick, and very slushy; under their feet and out on the brown stubble of grass, large chunks of it had been thrown by the wheels of passing cars. In rear of them, Goodwin heard the chug of a heavy motor, and he looked in vain for a spot on which he might stand and be safe from the mud. The truck

came on.

"Wait," said Hawthorne. "Let's ask 'em for a ride. Look and see if there's an officer in the front seat." There was none, nothing but red cords; and both men signalled wildly. The truck slowed down, and they climbed over the end gate and were hauled aboard.

"Hello, Artillery." Hawthorne's voice was neither high nor deep. It was rather a voice, medium to begin with, which had acquired terrible clarity through sounding over long fields and wide valleys. "How far ye goin'?"

"Le Mans," said the sergeant in charge.

"Where's that at, Artillery? On the way to Paris?"

"It's on the way, as you might say," answered Artillery. "You can take a train from there."

"That's the place we'll go; huh, Goodwin?"

They settled down in the end of the bumping, careening truck, smoking cigarettes until they could hold the shortened stubs no longer, and gazing restively at the flat, damp ground on either side of the road. A few miles ahead, Le Mans was already to be seen, the buildings gray in the afternoon light. It had the appearance of great size, and Goodwin wondered if the entrances were patrolled by military police, who, no doubt, would arrest them when they were discovered to be without travelling orders. But they could do nothing but chance it now.

The truck rolled over the pavement of the city, past the steep-roofed houses, and stopped at the beginning of a row of small

shops. "Far as we go, "said Artillery.

"Much obliged," said Hawthorne. They climbed down from the truck and walked along the street. To the right and left and on the main thoroughfare Le Mans was filled with American soldiers who lounged in doorways, swaggered along the sidewalk, explored narrow streets, overflowed the bakeries and cafés, until it seemed unlikely that room could be found for two more.

"This is no place for us," said Goodwin. "Let's find the railroad-station."

"Let's have a drink first."

"There'll be a café near the station," said Goodwin nervously. "I don't like this town myself."

They walked on, unnoticed in the throng, until they saw the railroad tracks, two pairs of them on a black, cindery bed which rose above the street.

A picket fence secured the station from trespassers, but it was low and easily surmounted, Goodwin noticed with gratification. Nevertheless, it would be better to wait for evening to get a train. There were bound to be officers about the station. And the inevitable M. P.!

"There's the café," announced Hawthorne. "Now where's the drink?"

"Let's guess," said Goodwin, striding after Hawthorne's long legs, which were

rapidly shortening the distance to a dilapidated brick building with musty windows.

The front room of the café was deserted, but in the rear a group of soldiers sat about a rectangular table, their blouses unfastened, their hats pushed high on their foreheads, with small glasses before them. One man, whom baldness had visited early and whose remaining hair grew about the scalp like a horseshoe, was talking with a great deal of smug

ness:

"Yes, and why shouldn't we be the best division in France? In the first place, we're selected men, and, in the second place, we're from New York. There's no bums among us. We didn't have to come into the army to make a livin'; we made ours in business."

Hawthorne sat listening, his drink untouched before him. He seemed very grave, as if he were intent on understanding all that was being spoken. Finally he asked, curious: "How long you been over here?"

The bald man stopped talking, smiled knowingly about the table, and answered: "Oh, about as long as you have, I guess." "Have you ever been up to the front?" asked Hawthorne calmly.

"If we had you'd a seen our names in the paper, brother," said the bald man. "What outfit did you say you was from?"

"New York's Own-selected division," said the man proudly. "What division are you from?”

"The First Division of Regulars," said Hawthorne.

"Oh," said the bald man superiorly. "You with them yellowbellies?'

Hawthorne got slowly to his feet, reached for the iron coffee-stand, and threw it deliberately at the bald spot. The iron weapon struck the wall, jangling harshly to the floor a moment after the bald head disappeared under the table. "Why, damn you," said Hawthorne. He started to climb over the table, but Goodwin encircled his waist and coaxed: "Come on, Hawthorne. Let the poor fool alone. Can't you see he don't know any better? He don't mean anything; he jist ain't got any sense." Goodwin breathed hard through his exertion, but his arms

remained straining about Hawthorne's narrow waist.

The bald head appeared at the corner of the table nearest the door, then ran. Hawthorne lunged to free himself, to reach the door, but Goodwin held on fast as the bald head bobbed out of sight.

"Gosh," said Goodwin, "I never seen anybody git under cover as fast as that in all my life."

"Damn lucky he did or I'd a brained him."

"Damned lucky he did or you'd be in jail long after the war is over." The consequences of such an act struck a cold chill down Goodwin's spine. "Gosh!" he shivered. "That iron thing would a killed him sure.' In that event he too would have had to go to jail!

Madame came in to light the lamps, frowning over her task, every one of her movements showing disapproval of what had happened. She, too, would have been affected if the coffee-stand had struck the bald man. She would have been arrested by the American officers for selling cognac and her café would have been closed.

Goodwin pushed his glass away. "Let's git outa here."

In the street the evening made outlines of houses and shadows of doorways. A bell from the railway-station, somewhere over the raised ground and beyond the picket fence, struck up a warning of an approaching train. "Let's hop it," said Goodwin. He led the way up the grassy embankment, and grasping hold of the top bar climbed over the fence. There were red and green signal-lights, and men with lanterns moving about on the platform of the dimly lighted station. Then the train rushed in, throwing up a maze of ruddy sparks out of the mouth of the squat chimney. Goodwin, between the two tracks, followed the waiting line of coaches to the first-class compartments. "Hurry up," he called, unfastening the door. "We'll ride in style." It swung open and they hurried inside as the shrill little whistle made infuriated noises. The wheels turned and the train rolled out of the station.

Through a thick, concave glass inset in the roof of the compartment, the electric lights gleamed coolly on the gray covering

of the seats, each with its triangular bit of lace for a head-rest and separated from its neighbor by a padded arm. There were six seats in the compartment, three on each side, but Hawthorne and Goodwin were the only passengers. They sat facing each other by the window. Goodwin smoked, but Hawthorne gazed out at the hurtling scene like a shy but eager child. Colored lights on the railroad track, pin-points of gold through the darkness, clusters, fields of blinking lights in the distance, pale faces of girls outside the compartment as the train stopped for a moment, then went on. It was all very fascinating and mysterious. He grinned. "Gosh!" Goodwin unexpectedly remarked. "Gosh, but I got a good outfit. A fine bunch. Wy, we wouldn't have a guy like that skunk in the café around us for more'n two minutes."

"So've I," said Hawthorne. "There's only one fellah in the whole lot that I can't git along with."

"Who's that?" asked Goodwin. “Our damn mess sergeant." "Oh," said Goodwin. "That's the way with all mess sergeants."

"No." Hawthorne slowly shook his head, as if he had fully considered Goodwin's explanation and found it lacking in truth. "No, soldier, I don't think so. Now you take our mess sergeant when we was up in the trenches last Febuary. We had it pearty tough up there, standin' watch four on and eight off, sleepin' in the mud and bein' et up by cooties, but do you think that damn mess sergeant'ld ever send us down warm chow? No, sir. It wasn't that he couldn't a. The kitchen was in a forty-foot dugout where they had plenty of wood and plenty of greaseballs to keep things hot. But whenever I sent up a coupla men from my relief to git the chow, they'd always bring it back cold. No damn sense in it at all. So one day I goes up there with the chow detail. He was settin' down eatin' a big pie. 'Lentz,' I says to him, 'Lentz, how come we never git any hot chow?' He looked at me and mumbled: 'I guess your chow's hot enough.' 'Lentz,' I says, 'you're a damn liar and you know it. An' I'll tell you somepn else: if our chow's not hot to

day I'm gonna raise hell.' Well, he

stands up at that and begins to git ex

cited. 'Don't you call me a liar or I'll put ya out of here.' That made me peeved. I never liked 'im anyways. Lentz, you come here,' I said; and when he didn't come I went after 'im an' we' tangled. I pounded that guy until my knuckles looked like raw meat, an' then I set out to kick hell out of 'im. I'd a done it too if they hadn't a ganged up on me, but what kin ya do aginst four greaseballs and a damn lieutenant?" Hawthorne made a deprecatory gesture with his big brown hands, his first movement since he had begun his story. In fact, he made no expression of any sort, his voice remaining at the same droning pitch.

"Je's," said Goodwin. "Too bad you didn't wait till some dark night. I suppose they socked you in the hoosegow?"

"Sure they did. 'You'll fight the war from the bull-pen, Hawthorne,' says the lieutenant. 'Yes, sir,' I said, 'and it's a damn good thing for that Lentz too, because if I ever git at 'im agin you won't have no evidence left to try me with.""

"Gosh," said Goodwin, "you oughtn't to have said that. I'll bet that one crack put three more months on your sentence. No, sir, I wouldn't of said that, Hawthorne."

Hawthorne grinned. "So they put me in the bull-pen, an' it was a hell of a sight better'n doin' four on an' eight off. It was at first, anyways, 'cause I didn't have any work to do. Then we moved back to a rest camp where the rest of the gang drilled an' dug trenches all day long. I was jist gittin' used to settin' around agin when they sticks me in front of a guy with a bayonet, give me an axe an' puts me on the wood-pile, splittin' rails for the kitchen stove. An' there wasn't nothin' else to do but swing that axe all day. Then on the second day I was out there at work with that sentry behind me an' I saw Lentz comin' along. He didn't see me at first, an' I went right on choppin' until he got within about ten feet of me. He was walkin' along, lookin' at the ground, and all at once he looks up an' sees me. He laughed so I jist let loose of that axe an' shied it at 'im."

"Je's," said Goodwin, horror-struck. "Did it hit 'im?"

"No, damn it. Only the handle. An' off he limped to report me to the O. D."