“Oh thank you! You’re very kind,” I said. As we took our departure down the hill I noticed a darky doughboy in a group who were drilling. He was in an awful fix; every time he tried to fasten the nose-clip on his nostrils, it would slip right off again! When the next lesson is held I have decided to be among the missing. Gondrecourt June 9. We have a new detail. His name is Jones. About six weeks ago he was kicked by a mule and had three of his ribs broken. He was sent to the hospital at Neufchateau. Learning that there was a chance that his battery might be sent to the front shortly, he pestered the docters until they let him go, his besetting fear being that he might become separated from his outfit. He returned three days ago. The next day he went out on the range as one of a gun crew. Yesterday he came into the hut and collapsed. The Secretary put him on his bed where he spent the rest of the day. Moved by purely altruistic motives, the Secretary then went to his captain and asked that Jones be assigned to the Y. as a supplementary detail. Now this is very nice for Jones, but I am not so sure whether it is nice for the Y. Jones, it seems, goes by the nickname of “Mildred.” At one period of his past life he was engaged in selling soap, a fact which inspires the boys to shout at frequent intervals: “Three cheers for Jones! Soap! Soap! Soap!” He brings echoes of his commercial training to the canteen counter. No east-side shopkeeper was ever more anxious to make sales than he. If a boy asks for tooth-paste when we happen to be out of it, he is sure to answer: “No, but we have some very fine shoe polish.” Or if somebody wants talcum powder when talcum there is none: “I’m sorry we’re out of it today, but can’t I interest you in some tomato ketchup?” Some day I think I shall write on essay on the psychology of suggestion as demonstrated in canteen sales. Nothing, it seems, ever really wins the boys’ approval unless it bears the label; “Made in the U. S. A.”—nothing that is, with the possible exception of eggs. Anything originating in Europe, from mustard to matches, is looked upon with a certain amount of suspicion, while goods coming from America are hailed with an enthusiasm often quite inconsistent with their quality. The other day we put a case of “Fig Newtons” on sale. The news flashed all over town. As one of the boys said; “Why it was just as if General Pershing or somebody’s mother had come to camp.” Lately we have had for sale quantities of fat French cookies. Some of the boys are mean enough to suggest that these were baked before the war. “Those cookies ought to wear service stripes,” one boy declared. So “Service Stripe Cookies” they have been ever since. “They’re all right for eating,” observed another customer solemnly, “but the Lord help you if you drop one on your toe!” This morning when I reached the hut I found Jones languidly washing dishes. “Where’s Neddy?” “Neddy? Why he’s in the guard-house.”