Schnitzel's fork left his hand and clattered angrily on the bare table. "Why shouldn't I speak English well?" he burst forth, scowling savagely. "I was born in this country. My parents came from Germany, but my father's an American citizen. He hates the Kaiser like poison. I'm an American, not a Fritzie, as a lot of fellows here seem to think. If I wasn't I wouldn't be in this camp training to go over. I enlisted because I wanted to fight for my country. Some people act as if they didn't believe it, though. There's been a lot of lies started about me right in our barrack. I know who to thank for it, too. I've stood it without saying a word. But if it goes on----" He stopped, one strong brown hand clenching. "I was glad you jumped that hound the other day," he continued fiercely. "Wish you'd hammered him good!" "So-o!" Ignace was not too slow of comprehension to put two and two together. Here it seemed was a man with whom he had something in common. "You see me do him?" he asked. "Yes. I was there that day and saw the whole thing! I didn't blame you. I hate the sight of him. He bunks next to me, you know. I wish he didn't. But then, what do I care? I can take care of myself. Don't let's talk about him. It makes me sore just to think of him. Those three fellows you run with are good chaps. You were lucky to get in with them. They all treat me fine, though I hardly know them." Praise of his Brothers caused Ignace to launch forth into the story of his first meeting with them, and of all they had done for him. Schnitzel listened without comment, merely repeating, "You were lucky," when Ignace had finished. With that he relapsed into taciturn silence, hurriedly finished his meal, and with a brief "So long" rose and left Ignace to himself. The latter, however, was not concerned by his table-mate's sudden relapse into uncommunicativeness. He watched Schnitzel walk away, a gleam of interest in his round, childlike eyes. He would have something pleasant to tell his Brothers on their return. They would be surprised to learn that the "so quiet fellow who never talk" had said so much to him. His letter to his mother still unwritten, Ignace decided to begin it directly he had cleansed and put away his mess kit. Seven o'clock saw him established at a desk in the Y. M. C. A., laboriously wielding a stubby pencil. This time he wrote in Polish and at some length. It was almost nine o'clock when he finished amid frequent yawns. Realizing that he was getting very sleepy, he took a brisk walk up and down the company street on which his barrack was situated. He was determined to fight off sleep, so as to stay awake until his bunkies' return. He lingered outside in the crisp night air until call to quarters drove him reluctantly indoors. After Taps, however, his struggle began in earnest.