Greeted on every side by evidence of havoc and devastation wrought by the enemy, the talk of the strollers remained centered on the war. In the home camps and on shipboard they had discussed it but little, preferring to keep it in the background. Now they were so near to the great conflict it could no longer be ignored. It had become the one vital topic of conversation. "Let's go into that wreck and see what it looks like inside," proposed Roger at last. Proceeding in an opposite direction from their camp, they had walked the breadth of the village, and were well toward the open country. Standing by itself in a field, the broken stone walls of a shelled cottage had attracted Roger's attention. "I'll go you," was Bob's ready response. "I'm game," agreed Jimmy. "So would I it to see," assented Ignace. "Yet think I there is no mooch by it, only the many stone and mooch roobish." Circling the wrecked cottage for a place by which to enter it with the least effort, the explorers climbed over a heap of debris, which partially blocked a doorless aperture at the rear, and gained the interior. Once inside they saw nothing more remarkable than ragged heaps of stone, splintered beams, and the broken remnants of household furniture. The only part of the floor still intact was the narrow strip on which they stood. "Let's go. It's fierce." Jimmy spoke in hoarse, husky tones. Sight of that ruthless wrecking of a home made him think of his own beautiful, far-away home, where his beloved "folks" dwelt in safety, immune from shot and shell. "I guess we know why we're here, when we look at this," he continued tensely. "If I had a thousand lives I'd give 'em all to save the home folks from such a thing ever happening to 'em." "Right-o!" emphasized Bob. Silence hung over the group for an instant, then, by mutual consent, they turned and left behind them the frightful demonstration of "Kultur." "Look who's here! He's mine. I saw him first!" Emerging from the ruin a step in advance of his comrades, Bob suddenly raised his voice in a shout, and set off on the run across the field behind the cottage. Echoing his yell, his bunkies tore after, laughing as they went. Bob's prize was nothing more than a solemn white goat, meandering aimlessly about the brown field in search of a green bit on which to graze. "You old fake! I thought you'd lamped something wonderful! Nothing but an old Billy goat. Hello, Bill! How's tricks?" Jimmy now jocularly addressed his goatship. "M-a-a-a!" bleated Bill politely. "Don't call him Bill," objected Bob. "Have some respect for his delicate feelings. You can see for yourself it won't go down with him. He's a werry fine animule, and I'm going to adopt him and call him Gaston. He's a French goat, hence the _Français_ handle." "You'd better let him alone," warned Roger. "He must belong to somebody around here. You know what'll happen to you if you pinch him."