He sat down at a table near the door. Dan had disappeared into the back room. Fuselli felt homesick. He was thinking how long it was since, he had had a letter from Mabe. “I bet she's got another feller,” he told himself savagely. He tried to remember how she looked, but he had to take out his watch and peep in the back before he could make out if her nose were straight or snub. He looked up, clicking the watch in his pocket. Marie of the white arms was coming laughing out of the inner room. Her large firm breasts, neatly held in by the close-fitting blouse, shook a little when she laughed. Her cheeks were very red and a strand of chestnut hair hung down along her neck. She picked it up hurriedly and caught it up with a hairpin, walking slowly into the middle of the room as she did so with her hands behind her head. Dan Cohan followed her into the room, a broad grin on his face. “All right, kid,” he said. “I told her you'ld pay when Uncle Sam came across. Ever had any Kummel?” “What the hell's that?” “You'll see.” They sat down before a dish of fried eggs at the table in the corner, the favoured table, where Marie herself often sat and chatted, when wizened Madame did not have her eye upon her. Several men drew up their chairs. Wild Dan Cohan always had an audience. “Looks like there was going to be another offensive at Verdun,” said Dan Cohan. Someone answered vaguely. “Funny how little we know about what's going on out there,” said one man. “I knew more about the war when I was home in Minneapolis than I do here.” “I guess we're lightin' into 'em all right,” said Fuselli in a patriotic voice. “Hell! Nothin' doin' this time o' year anyway,” said Cohan. A grin spread across his red face. “Last time I was at the front the Boche had just made a coup de main and captured a whole trenchful.” “Of who?” “Of Americans--of us!” “The hell you say!” “That's a goddam lie,” shouted a black-haired man with an ill-shaven jaw, who had just come in. “There ain't never been an American captured, an' there never will be, by God!” “How long were you at the front, buddy,” asked Cohan coolly. “I guess you been to Berlin already, ain't yer?” “I say that any man who says an American'ld let himself be captured by a stinkin' Hun, is a goddam liar,” said the man with the ill-shaven jaw, sitting down sullenly. “Well, you'd better not say it to me,” said Cohan laughing, looking meditatively at one of his big red fists. There had been a look of apprehension on Marie's face. She looked at Cohan's fist and shrugged her shoulders and laughed. Another crowd had just slouched into the cafe. “Well if that isn't wild Dan! Hello, old kid, how are you?” “Hello, Dook!” A small man in a coat that looked almost like an officer's coat, it was so well cut, was shaking hands effusively with Cohan. He wore a corporal's stripes and a British aviator's fatigue cap. Cohan made room for him on the bench.