"Wy, that, don't you know? That's beer, French beer." "The devil, you say!" "'Pon my soul, it is." "Is the French fightin' man anything like his beer?" I asked. "Oh no, Gawd forbid," said he, "for this damn stuff is as much like beer as kissin' your own sister." And I thoroughly agreed with him, because although it looked like beer and smelt like beer, it was no more like beer than the kiss of a man's sister would be when compared to the kiss of his sweetheart. Our long march ended and we were billeted in the best billets I ever remember while abroad. It was the luck of our platoon to be billeted at an _estaminet_, or inn. The owner of this was somewhat of a naturalist, the walls of his house being hung with all kinds of valuable skins, cases of butterflies, etc. The people here were the acme of kindness. You may guess how we slept that night. During our stay in this billet I was always very conscious of a curious frightened feeling, and as I looked at the carefree faces of my comrades, I often wondered if they felt as I did. Sometimes a dull, menacing boom, making the air vibrate, would cause a silence to fall and a far-away look in the eyes told me more emphatically than any words could that the rest of the boys were "thinking it over," probably just as hard as I was doing. Next morning we had a grand breakfast, due to the kindness of Major, then Captain Hopkins. Before actually going into the trenches we were taken some thousand yards to the back of the first line and started to work at filling sandbags and generally improving the condition of the rear of our lines. Mile after mile at the back of the firing line, trenches are being improved in case of retirement. The Germans are doing the same, but they make theirs of concrete, so when grumbling at the slow progress of the Allies, just think for a moment of the tremendous task in front of them. An occasional bullet would whistle over our heads as we worked, while some would imbed themselves in the mud around us. No one was hit and just at dusk we were marched back to our billets for one more night's rest before taking our places in the first line. Engaged in conversation that night with the good Monsieur Prevot, the worthy host of the _estaminet_, was a man who looked the typical Tommy of the British Army. Of medium height, thickset, dark hair and dark moustache, he was about the last person one would suspect of being anything but the soldier he proclaimed himself to be. Soon he was hobnobbing with the boys, playing cards and telling them stories of the earlier days of the war.