We have understood! Now that the Boche has exhausted his breath, exerted himself, put himself in a perspiration to make us understand, one of us, who knows German perfectly, sums up his instructions in a few words, to the great astonishment of our sentinel. Our comrade explains to him what is to be done; the Boche nods his head. Yes, that is it, he understands perfectly; it would not take much to make him take off his coat and help. As for us, we have no great desire to begin, so we engage him in a long conversation concerning the rights and prerogatives of socialists. It is the first of May; he is a workman. A democratic socialist? He confesses it timidly. He knows perfectly well that one does not work a stroke on that day. Already, tired of standing, we sit on the trunks in a ring round the Teuton, who tries to reconcile his socialistic theories, which he cannot give up, with his duty as a German soldier. Seriously brought to book he capitulates. After all, he is there to guard us and not to survey our work. Let us do what we like. He prefers, however, that we should not get him into trouble, for the General is severe. Then we take the waggon by assault, and we try to unload the heavy trunks from it. All in vain. We have soon been there an hour, and the trunks repose in peace in the same place where we found them. The workman comes back. With a glance--that professional glance which nothing can deceive--he sees that we are not men of the trade. We set about it so badly that the best will in the world does not succeed in moving the smallest of the trunks. The workman acknowledges with pity the uselessness of our united efforts. Ah, these French! They have no energy; they don’t know how to work. He takes hold of a crowbar, gives a heave here, a heave there, and behold, a trunk leaves the waggon and falls by its weight on the earth. Exclamations of admiration without reserve on our part: “Ach, Wunderschön, Kolossal!” The workman is proud of himself! Now that we are initiated into the business, the waggons are unloaded fairly quickly. But how hot it is! With common accord we make our way to our knapsacks. The astonished sentinel advances. We stop him, calling out that we have worked enough, that it is the first of May, that we are going on strike. He shakes his head in despair, and turns his eyes another way not to witness our reprehensible want of discipline. Then we sit down. “Frühstück,” we say, and we break the bread. Overcome by curiosity the guard approaches and casts his eyes on the box of preserves which we take out. He enjoys the sight of our “Delikatessen,” which he nevertheless refuses to share with us, although we invite him, as a brother socialist to do so.