"Some bombardment--that!" exclaimed one of a number of khaki-clad soldiers who were busying themselves in varying fashion in their bomb-proof quarters. "I should say so!" agreed another. "If our boys keep this up long there won't be enough Germans left for us to have a scrimmage with!" "Don't you fool yourself, Bob!" exclaimed Sergeant Jimmy Blaise. "There are more Germans left alive than we have any idea of. There'll be plenty left for you to tackle." "Now your mind's relieved on that score, would you mind passing that oil can, Bob?" requested Roger Barlow. "There's a spot of rust on my gun, and if we're going to have another big fight soon I don't want the lock to jam at a critical time." "Another big fight, eh?" mused Robert Dalton, as he complied with his bunkie's request. "That's about all we've been doing lately." "That's what we're here for," suggested Sergeant Jimmy. "And the more big fights we have the sooner it will be over." "You said something!" chimed in Franz Schnitzel, who, in spite of his Teutonic name, was one of the best of Uncle Sam's doughboys. "It's the only way to make the stupid Germans, not to call them anything worse, realize that we're not here to play tag with them. The heavier the fighting, the quicker they'll be ready to give up. But what's the use of talking about more fighting? Here we are, relieved of duty for to-day, at least, and let's enjoy it while we can. We'll be back in the trenches soon enough." "That's so!" agreed Jimmy. "Hello over there, Iggy!" he called to a lad sitting at a table on which glowed an electric light. "Are you writing in Polish or English?" he asked, for the lad he addressed as "Iggy," but whose name was Ignace Pulinski, was laboring with pen, ink and paper. "It is English I am writ him, an to my mothar," was the answer. "No more Polish do I him write. I am a 'Merican now and for always." "That's the way to talk, Iggy!" cried Bob. "Do you want any help with that letter? It seems to be more important than usual." "Sure him is reportment," agreed Iggy, looking up and drawing in his tongue, which, while writing, had been stuck out of his mouth, following every laborious movement of his pen. "I am to my mothar sending my share of the money that Sergeant Jimmy broke up on us." "Oh, you mean the five thousand francs he whacked up with us, Iggy," laughed Franz. "That's the word, 'whacked,' not broke, though no matter how much money someone whacks up with you, you'll be broke as soon as you haven't any." "English him is a queer talk," sighed Iggy. "But I am writ to my mothar that I send her the two hundred dollars Sergeant Jimmy gave me. By jolly, that's a heap of money!" and his eyes glistened. "My faothar--he work many a days and he never get so much. But I no send this to my faothar--he is of no good. To my mothar this money goes, and she will kick for joy."