Oh, don't think there hadn't been war talk flying about. Sure there had, but, except for a general uneasiness, you wouldn't know nothing was doing. The Frenchies are like that--they don't hunt trouble, but when it comes--oh, boy! They sure are right _there_! We seen little groups of folks standing talking together. The shop keepers had left their shops, and joined the crowds on the street. They was waving their hands--they are great on that--everyone speaking at once. We come up close and listened. What we heard certainly made our ears ring! War! France was going to declare war on Germany! Queer how that black cloud seemed to change the whole complexion of that little sun-soaked town. I'd never seen the natives look like that before. There was a little old woman who kept a fruit stand--figs and peaches and what-not. She always had a grin for us fellows when we passed. She and her granddaughter. The granddaughter was a pretty girl--her cheeks was as red as the side of the peaches and she had black eyes and hair. They was always ready to swap a "bon jour" with us--but not today. The old lady was minding the stand alone. She looked kind of white--no smile--no wave of her hand. She told me her granddaughter had gone to the square where the bulletins was being posted. We beat it over. It was about three; no, I guess it was four, before the big crowds began to gather in the square. Up to that time there had been little groups drifting here and there, but by four the wagons had stopped at the corners, their drivers had climbed down from the seats and pushed their way into the mob, and the tram-car conductors and motormen just left their cars wherever they happened to shut off power, and shoved their way in for a view of the bulletins. I tell you, that little town was at fever heat! Excitement! Say, nothing beats a Frenchie at that! I've seen a lot of things in my time, but it certainly gave me a queer feeling in the pit of my stomach to realize just what those bulletins meant. It kind of got you to see that little pleasure city so dead serious all at once. Everyone in Nice was in that crowd--rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. The ladies from the Riviera, in their silks and satins--the tradespeople--the poor--all fighting for a view of the words flashed on the boards. Someone yelled, "Vive la France! Vive la France!" and a thousand voices caught it up until it rose and swelled like the roar of the combers in a storm. We had seen Nice quiet and peaceful and pretty--we saw a different Nice from that moment. They didn't waste no time. They began calling in the reserves. Do you know how they done it? Why, they'd simply gather them up as they went along the street. From buildings and shops and hotels and huts they poured--boys for the most part--some pulling on a coat and buttoning it as they ran, and women following them, always women--sweethearts and mothers--looking puzzled and dazed by it all, but never holding the boys back--not they!