Candles were lighted and set on the helmets of the men. Bodies rose to a sitting posture, eyes on Hicks. “Gimme a drink, Hicksy!” “Hooray, look what Hicks’s got.” “Yeh, gimme a drink.” The voices were clamorous. “Gimme, gimme? Was your mouth bored out with a gimlet,” Hicks jeered. “Why didn’t you buy some?” They formed a semicircle around the fireplace in front of which Hicks sat with his plunder. Over the bottles they grew noisily talkative. “Say, have you fellows seen any of these new guys here?” asked Hicks. “I was walkin’ down one of the streets by the Frog canteen and one of ’em asked me if I was in the balloon corps. I told him yes, and asked him how he guessed it, and he said, ‘Oh, I saw that balloon on your cap.’” “They sure are a bunch of funny birds. I ast one of ’em how long he’d been over on this side and he said: ‘About three weeks—seen anybody that’s come over lately?’” A contingent of soldiers which had arrived in the village that afternoon were, therefore, objects of scorn and hostility. “Aw, they’re some of them fellahs that the wind blew in. Pretty soon they’ll have the home guards over here.” “They will like hell! If you could git them home guards away from home you’d sure have to hump. They’re home guards—they guard our women while we’re over here.” The speaker seemed afraid that his listeners would not understand that he was stressing the word _home_. “Yeh, they’s one of ’em guardin’ my gal too close. I got a lettah....” “You’re lucky to get any kind of a letter. Here I been for three months and not a word. I don’t know whether they all died or what,” Hicks ended gloomily. “Aw cheer up, Hicksy, old boy. Maybe your mail was on that transport that got sunk.” A head was thrust in the door. It was the first sergeant. “Pipe down, you damned recruits. Lights are supposed to be out at eight o’clock. If you guys want to git work detail for the rest of your lives——” “All right, you dirty German spy. Git the hell out of here and let us sleep.” All of the candles had been put out as soon as the voice of the first sergeant was heard. The men had flung themselves on their beds. Now each one pretended to be asleep. “Who said that?” The first sergeant was furious. “I’ll work you birds till your shoes fall off.” The room answered with loud and affected snores. The first sergeant, in all of his fierceness, disappeared. II It was morning. Sergeant Kerfoot Harriman, bearing with proud satisfaction the learning and culture he had acquired in the course of three years at a small Middle-Western university, walked down the Rue de Dieu in a manner which carried the suggestion that he had forgotten the belt of his breeches. Approaching a white two-story stone building which age and an occasional long-distance German shell had given an air of solemn decrepitude, Sergeant Harriman unbent enough to shout stiltedly: “Mailo! Mailo-ho!”