“The name?” said Billy. “Why, I don’t see any real reason why I shouldn’t tell you. The name of this song is: ‘I Want a Good Egg, and I Want It Bad.’ The accompaniment will be rendered----” but this was as far as he got, as a shout of laughter went up, and he became the target for whatever miscellaneous objects happened at that moment to be closest to hand. “The title to that song is plenty,” observed Frank, when the disturbance had somewhat quieted down; “speaking for myself, I’m not curious to see if the music is as bad as the egg.” “That’s just it,” said Billy, aggrievedly, “it isn’t as bad, it’s worse. That’s what makes the song so funny.” “The trouble is,” said Tom, “that you’re about the only one in this man’s army who does like it, so I’d advise you to drop it while you’re still alive and healthy.” “Oh, all right, then,” said Billy, “if you fellows haven’t got sense enough to recognize a little musical gem when it is offered to you, you can go without. But please remember that you’re the losers, not me.” “It’s nice of you to feel sorry for us,” said Frank, “but just you save up that song to sing to a bunch of Boches. Of course it will be hard even on the Huns, but they’re used to atrocities by this time.” “That’s a good idea,” said Billy in an injured tone. “I know a German isn’t much good, but with all their faults they do appreciate good music.” “Yes, but we weren’t talking about _good_ music,” remarked Bart pointedly. “I don’t seem to make a hit with this crowd,” said Billy plaintively. “One of you fellows see if you can do better.” “I heard a good joke the other day,” volunteered Tom, “and I wouldn’t mind telling it if somebody coaxed me a little bit.” “Consider yourself coaxed,” said Bart. “Go ahead and shoot the works.” “Well,” said Tom, “it seems that in one of the recruiting camps an officer was questioning some of the men with an idea of finding out what they would do in a certain emergency. As he went down the line, he came to a darky. “‘Now, ’Rastus,’ the officer said, ‘suppose you were out in an open field on scouting duty, and suddenly you saw a whole regiment of Germans running toward you, bayonets fixed and ready for business. What would you do?’ “‘Whut would ah do? Why, boss, ah wouldn’t do a thing. Ah’d just say tuh mah feet: “Feet, do yuh duty,” and, boss, ah’m mighty suah dey would.’” CHAPTER XXIV THE CELLAR A burst of laughter greeted the climax of Tom’s story. “And now,” said Bart, “I propose that we wander over to the canteen and proceed to wrap ourselves around some apple pie and a few large and succulent doughnuts.”