“Uniforms!” continued Sergeant Gray, beginning to enjoy himself hugely. “Why, say, we haven’t anything! No guns worth the name, not enough shoes. Why, a fellow in my company’s wearing two rights at this minute. And as for uniforms—why, I’ll tell you this—my whole company’s going round to-day like this, slickers and nothing else.” “Amazing!” commented Mr. Booth unctuously. “We hear of so much money being spent, and yet nothing to show for it.” “Graft!” explained the sergeant in a very deep bass. “Graft, that’s what it is!” Mr. Booth seemed temporarily to forget that he was there to take a picture. “But you—we will come out all right,” he observed, watching the sergeant closely. “We have so much. The Browning gun, now—do you know about that? It is wonderful, not so?” “Wonderful?” queried the sergeant, feeling happier than he had for some time. “Well, I’m a machine gunner; and if we’re to get anywhere we’ve got to do better than the Browning.” He had a second’s uneasiness then, until he remembered that he wore no insignia. “It heats. It jams. It——” Here ended his knowledge of machine guns. “It’s rotten, that’s all.” Mr. Booth was moistening his lips. “It’s sad news,” he observed. “I—but this Liberty motor—I understand it’s a success.” “You’d better not ask me about that,” said the sergeant gravely. “Ever since my brother went down——” “Went down? Fell?” “Aviation. Engine too heavy for the wings. Got up a hundred feet—first plane, you know, testing it out. And——” He drew a long breath. “I wonder,” said Mr. Booth, “if you would care for a little drink? I keep some here for the boys. The city’s a dry place for soldiers. It’ll cheer you up.” “I’m off liquor.” It was the first truth he had spoken for some time, and it sounded strange to his ears. “Rotten food and all that. Can’t drink. That’s straight.” It had not been lost on him that Mr. Booth was endeavoring to conceal a vast cheerfulness; also that his refusal to drink was unexpected. “Better have the picture, old top,” he observed. “Better get this eye on the off side, hadn’t you?” For some five minutes Mr. Booth alternately disappeared under a black cloth and reappeared again. The sergeant felt that under a pretence of focusing he was being subjected to a close scrutiny, and bore himself carefully and well. When at last it was over Mr. Booth put a question. “Want these in a hurry, I suppose?” “Hurry? Why?” “Most of the boys are just about to sail. They come in here and give me two days, three days. It is not enough.” “Well, I can give you a month if you want it.” “You’re not going soon, then?” “I should say not! Do you think Uncle Sam’s going to trust any transports out with these German submarines about? I guess not!” There was no question as to Mr. Booth’s excitement now. His round face fairly twitched. “But you cannot know that,” he said. “That is camp talk, eh?”