Fact! No fire in the town in fifty years! 'Way back in the days of Napoleon III. there had been a fire, a little blaze, in the town. Think of that, you insurance men who used to write policies for clothing dealers on New York's East Side! When he had sufficiently recovered his avoirdupois, M. le Maire dragged out of the Hotel de Ville, with the aid of the embattled infantrymen, _some_ fire apparatus, of early Bourbon vintage. One private who helped handle it swears that he spotted the date "1748" on the leather hose which led from a water tank, about twelve by eight by four, toward the general direction of the fire. The tank, in turn, had to be filled by a bucket brigade strung along from the scene of action to the village fountain, about a quarter of a mile away. Fire a Social Success. It's a shame to spoil a good story, but Private Doe did not throw down the pig into an army blanket held out to receive it. He clambered down a smouldering flight of ladder stairs, with His Pigship under his arm, quite unharmed, save for a severe nervous shock. Aside from a few scorched kit bags, the loss of the top sergeant's cherished pipe, and a few lungfuls of smoke acquired by Private Doe, the fire was not a success--that is, from a historical standpoint. But as a social event, in bringing the Americans--and Private Doe, kissed by the lady mayoress for his pains, in particular--closer to the hearts of the villagers, it was decidedly there. ---- JIM. ---- Honest, but Jim was the sourest man in all o' Comp'ny G; You could sing and tell stories the whole night long, but never a cuss gave he. You could feed him turkey at Christmastime--and Tony the cook's no slouch-- But Jim wouldn't join in "Three cheers for the cook!" Gosh, but he had a grouch! He wouldn't go up to the hill cafay when our daily hike was done, And sip his beer, and chin with the lads, the crabby son-of-a-gun; He'd growl if you asked him to hold the light, he'd snarl if you asked for a butt, Till at last the gang was 'most ready to put Jim down for a mutt. About the first time that our mail came in, we all felt as high as a king; "What luck?" somebody hollers to Jim: he says, "Not a dad-blamed thing." And then he goes off in his end o' the shack, and Tom Breed swears 'at he cried; But when somebody went and repeated it, Jim swore, by gad, Tom lied. We were gettin' our mail, irregular-like, for about a month or two; But Jim? He never drew anything, and blooey! but he was blue! Not only blue, but surly; he was off'n the whole darn shop, And once he was put onto "heavy" for talkin' back to the Top.