"That's what!" agreed Bart. "You can see already that war is what Sherman said it was." "This is nothing," put in Billy. "It's only the fringe. It's only when we get in the trenches that we'll know anything about it." "Some of us may not know much then," put in Tom. "It all depends on how long we succeed in dodging the bullets." "Yes," observed Billy. "Or our experience may be like that of the Tommy who said 'First, I 'ears a 'orrible noise and the next thing I 'ears the nurse sayin', "Sit up and drink this!"'" There was a laugh that broke the tension, and before long they reached the district that had been chosen for their intensive training. It was a wide stretch of rolling country several miles in extent, and it had been chosen because it resembled in its main features the actual territory where the fight was going on. There were brooks and hills, valleys and quarries, woods and meadowlands with a few small hamlets of scattered houses. There were no spacious barracks such as they had been used to in the cantonments at home. The troops were quartered here and there as opportunity offered. Thousands of dog tents had been erected on the level places and in these the majority of the men were sheltered. Every cottage and chateau also had its quota, and farmhouses with their outlying barns and stables were utilized to the utmost. "Hope they don't separate us, fellows," said Frank, as he watched the corporals and sergeants picking out various squads and assigning them their billets. "Gee, so do I," echoed Bart. "The old bunch has been together ever since we left Camport and I have a hunch our luck's going to continue." The "hunch" proved to have a solid foundation, for the four army boys were all sent off together with about forty more of their comrades to an old mill that stood near the edge of the camp. It was a low, rambling structure with plenty of windows that gave it ample light and an air of homely comfort that delighted the young soldiers. "This is what I call luck," chortled Tom, as he looked about him and glanced up at the well-thatched roof that seemed rain-proof. "It beats a dog tent by a thousand miles," returned Billy. "It doesn't matter so much while the weather's still warm," said Bart, "but oh, boy! when the winter comes, maybe it won't be good to have a snug roof like this over our heads." A little cottage adjoining the mill served as a mess hall for the squad billeted there and the presiding genius of the place was a French cook, who had as his assistant a young Irish lad whose most prominent points were a shock of red hair and a mischievous disposition. "Anatole is a good chef, all right," Frank remarked one day, shortly after they had had a most appetizing meal. "He may have his faults and probably does, but he cooks to beat the band."