According to world-wide custom, the goat was promptly nick-named "Billy," although he was a mere bundle of lank grey wool with legs so long that it must have made him dizzy every time he viewed the earth below. He was just strong enough to stagger over to the nursing bottle which Jean held out in his grimy fist. Jogman loved Jean; Jean loved the goat, and the goat loved Jogman. Thus was established an "odd-fellows" circle into which none might break. "Dat’s a hand fer ye," Tim commented to Jogman, as the pair watched Jean feeding the goat. "A hand like dat ain’t friends wit’ soap an’ water, but de goat ain’t too pertickler." "I washed him about an hour ago," Jogman replied defensively, "but ye can’t keep th’ boy clean—he ain’t happy without dirt." Jean sat upon the ground as they spoke, still holding the nursing bottle up to Billy’s greedy mouth. He understood only a little of what they were saying, but looked up quickly at the last few words. "I’m happy here—me," he cried. "_Bien content_—damn!" The expletive was addressed to Billy who with a sudden tug had pulled the bottle from his hand. "Do ye know where small boys that swear go?" asked Jogman reprovingly. "Big boys what swear go to de war," Jean contended, "an’ me soldier too." "If you do it again I’ll send ye back to yer aunt at Soissons," said Jogman. The child sprang to his feet at once, and catching him by the hand cried tearfully: "No!—No!—No!—not back to Soissons—Oh! _Je vous en prie, non!_" What strange fear had driven him from home? He couldn’t or wouldn’t explain it; but he was in great dread of being sent back, and it was the one threat which influenced him. "Well, well," said Jogman soothingly, "be a good boy, an’ don’t swear no more—then we kin keep ye with us." Jogman had a good heart, but a bad stomach—it’s difficult to get a perfect combination. Jogman drank; so did the goat, but they imbibed from different bottles and with different results. He had been on his good behaviour for almost two weeks—his money had run out. But pay day came at last and trouble always followed in its wake. Thirty dollars—over one hundred and fifty francs in French money—was enough to turn the head of any soldier. With a bulging pocket the Tommy’s heart throbbed nervously, until he got a chance to "blow it in." But before this fortuitous event was completed Jogman had signally disgraced himself and us. Tim accosted him as he was leaving the hospital grounds: "Where are ye goin’?" he demanded. "Goin’ to town to see th’ sights," Jogman returned with a grin. "_Some_ sights—dose gals," Tim growled. "Remember yer failin’ an’ don’t hit de can too hard. I can’t bear seein’ ye doin’ mor’n six days ’First Field’ per week." Jogman had good cause to know to what form of military punishment Tim alluded. He had already had several trials of it.