Yes, sir, there were two doughboys in the shell-hole! Jimmie had seen so many tens of thousands of them that he had no doubt. Compared with the war-battered poilus, they were like soldiers out of a fashion-plate: smooth-shaven, with long chins and thin lips, and a thousand other details which made you realize that home was home, and better than any other place in the world. And oh, the beautiful business-like precision of these fashion-plate soldiers! They never said a word, they never even glanced about; they just threw themselves down at the edge of the shell-hole, and leaned their rifles over and set to work. You didn't need to see--you could tell from the look on these men's faces that they were hitting something! Presently came two more, leaping in. Without so much as as a nod of greeting, they settled down and went to shooting; and when they had used up most of their cartridges, one of them got up and shouted to the rear, and there came a man running with a fresh supply in a big pouch. Later on came three more with rifles. Apparently there were not so many Germans now, for these new-comers found time for words. “They told us to hold a line back there,” said one. “But hell!” “There's more Huns up ahead,” said another. “Let's get 'em.” “Just as well now as later,” said a third. “You stay behind and get that finger tied up,” said the first speaker; but the other told him to go and get his own fingers tied up. Then one of them looked about and spied Jimmie. “Why, here's a Yank!” he cried. “What you doin' here?” Jimmie answered: “I'm a motor-cycle man, and they sent me with maps for a battery, but I think it's been captured long ago.” “You're wounded,” said the other. “It ain't much,” said Jimmie, apologetically. “It was a long time ago, anyhow.” “Well, you go back,” said the doughboy. “We're here now--it'll be all right.” He said it, not boastingly, but as a simple matter of fact. He was a mere boy, a rosy-cheeked kid with a little ugly pug-nose covered with freckles, and a wide, grinning mouth. But to Jimmie he seemed just the loveliest boy that had ever come out of the U.S.A. “Can you walk?” he asked. “Sure!” said Jimmie. “And these Frenchies?” The doughboy looked at the others. “You savvy their lingo?” When Jimmie shook his head, he turned to the battle-worn hairy ones. “You fellows go back,” he said. “We don't need you now.” When they stared uncomprehending, he asked: “Polly voo Francy?” “We, we!” cried they in one voice.