The uncovered garbage cans clattered as they were thrown one by one into the truck. Dust, and a smell of putrid things, hung in the air about the men as they worked. A guard stood by with his legs wide apart, and his rifle-butt on the pavement between them. The early mist hung low, hiding the upper windows of the hospital. From the door beside which the garbage cans were ranged came a thick odor of carbolic. The last garbage can rattled into place on the truck, the four prisoners and the guard clambered on, finding room as best they could among the cans, from which dripped bloody bandages, ashes, and bits of decaying food, and the truck rumbled off towards the incinerator, through the streets of Paris that sparkled with the gaiety of early morning. The prisoners wore no tunics; their shirts and breeches had dark stains of grease and dirt; on their hands were torn canvas gloves. The guard was a sheepish, pink-faced youth, who kept grinning apologetically, and had trouble keeping his balance when the truck went round corners. “How many days do they keep a guy on this job, Happy?” asked a boy with mild blue eyes and a creamy complexion, and reddish curly hair. “Damned if I know, kid; as long as they please, I guess,” said the bull-necked man next him, who had a lined prize fighter's face, with a heavy protruding jaw. Then, after looking at the boy for a minute, with his face twisted into an astonished sort of grin, he went on: “Say, kid, how in hell did you git here? Robbin' the cradle, Oi call it, to send you here, kid.” “I stole a Ford,” the boy answered cheerfully. “Like hell you did!” “Sold it for five hundred francs.” Happy laughed, and caught hold of an ash can to keep from being thrown out of the jolting truck. “Kin ye beat that, guard?” he cried. “Ain't that somethin'?” The guard sniggered. “Didn't send me to Leavenworth 'cause I was so young,” went on the kid placidly. “How old are you, kid?” asked Andrews, who was leaning against the driver's seat. “Seventeen,” said the boy, blushing and casting his eyes down. “He must have lied like hell to git in this goddam army,” boomed the deep voice of the truck driver, who had leaned over to spit s long squirt of tobacco juice. The truck driver jammed the brakes on. The garbage cans banged against each other. The Kid cried out in pain: “Hold your horses, can't you? You nearly broke my leg.” The truck driver was swearing in a long string of words. “Goddam these dreamin', skygazin' sons of French bastards. Why don't they get out of your way? Git out an' crank her up, Happy.” “Guess a feller'd be lucky if he'd break his leg or somethin'; don't you think so, Skinny?” said the fourth prisoner in a low voice. “It'll take mor'n a broken leg to git you out o' this labor battalion, Hoggenback. Won't it, guard?” said Happy, as he climbed on again.