The towers of the little church were gone, the bells, carried off by the Germans, could give forth no joyous peal, but there came a day when the small town joined the rest of the world in celebrating the news of the armistice. “Make a joyful noise, all ye lands,” quoted the old _curé_ as he stood on the steps of the church and smiled indulgently upon the boys who were raising a tremendous din with any kind of thing that would furnish a noise. An old bugle, a sheet of tin and a hammer, cow bells and sheep bells, were in great requisition. There was a descent upon the kitchens, every boy carrying off whatsoever he could lay his hands upon, from a tin plate to a copper cauldron, and he did it unreproved. People stood in little knots talking excitedly, weeping, shouting, singing. Anything resembling a tricolor was waved, was hung from windows, was carried in parade upon the end of a stick. The last gun was fired at eleven A.M. At that hour from the church steps the old _curé_ raised his hands in benediction before he began mass. Lucie and Odette joined the marching throng to swell the volume of song when the strains of the Marseillaise arose above the din. An old man with an ancient cornet played the air, the boys beat wildly upon their improvised drums. Men, women and children joined in. Presently at the end of the procession appeared a grinning black face. A negro soldier with a small American flag stuck in his hat, deftly rattled a set of bones and lent his voice to the singing with a fervor unmistakable even if his rendering of the words was peculiar: “O, sarm city on, Form a batty one,” sang Gus Fitchett, then suddenly to the intense delight of the boys he broke into a series of pigeon wings, double shuffles, and cake walks, keeping time with his clattering bones. In a moment there was an end of the singing and Gus was the center of a group which cheered, applauded, urged him on till he stopped exhausted to wipe his perspiring face. All at once he stiffened up rigidly and stood at attention as an American officer came up, whom he saluted. Philip Randolph, trying to repress a smile said authoritatively: “You black rascal, what are you up to?” Gus gave a series of salutes. “Jes’ celebratin’, suh. Wah obah, suh.” “You’ll be over, over in the guard house if you don’t look out,” said Philip. “Hallo, Lucie, are you in this, too?” “Of course. Please don’t scold Gus; he is such a dear.” “Oh, you know him, do you?” “Indeed I do. He’ll fall at your feet if I tell him you’re my uncle from Virginia. Wasn’t his dancing wonderful?” “Pretty good. I used to perform that way myself when I was a boy, but I never was quite as limber as that. To tell you the truth I haven’t had such a reminder of home since I left. It’s lucky I know his kind or he’d be reported. What about this--Gus is his name?”