The train stood still and conversation languished. There are only two things to be done when a general is angry: One is to get behind the furniture and pretend one is not there; the other is to distract his mind. The general’s ire growing and the car remaining in the tunnel, an aide whom the general called Tommy when no one was near ventured to speak. “Rather an amusing story going round, sir,” he said. “Woof! One of the sergeants in the Headquarters Troop has made a wager—woof!—woof, sir!—sir—that he——” “I don’t want to hear anything about the Headquarters Troop,” snarled the general. “Woof! Bunch of second-story workers!” The aide subsided. But somewhat later, when the car had moved on and the general was smoking an excellent cigar, the general said: “What was the wager, Tommy?” “I believe, sir, it is to the effect that within a month this fellow will breakfast with you, sir. To be exact, will eat a bran muffin with you.” The general exhaled a large mouthful of smoke. “_C’est la guerre!_” he said. He had been studying French for two weeks. “_C’est la guerre_, Tommy. Queer things happen these days. But I think it unlikely. Very, very unlikely.” II Sergeant Gray was extremely contented. He sat back in his seat and alternately nibbled doughnuts and puffed at a cigarette. Before him, stretched as far as the limitations permitted, were two long and well-breeched legs, ending in tan shoes listed by the supply sergeant as “Shoes, field, pair, size 11 EE.” He had surreptitiously taken out Mrs. Bud Palmer’s photograph and decided that her face was shallow. And after a moment’s hesitation he had decided not to waste any part of his precious leave in returning it. So he had torn it into bits and thrown it out of the window. Then he had taken a piece of paper and, writing on it “This space to let,” had placed it in the condiment can and put the can back in his saddlebags. The reason of his content was that leave was now assured. At eleven o’clock that morning the general’s field secretary had typed on a shaky field machine that stood on an equally unsteady tripod the order that at the port of embarkation twenty per cent of the men would be allowed each day some twenty-three and a half hours’ leave. Wild cheers in each car had followed the reading of the order. Wild cheers and wild plans. Sergeant Gray dreamed, doughnut in one hand and cigarette in the other. Twenty-three and a half hours! A lot could happen in twenty-three and a half hours. His dreams were general rather than concrete. Girls, theatres and food comprised them. No particular girl, no particular theatre, no particular food. He would call up some of the fellows from college, and they would have sisters. And when he had gone to the other side they would write to him. He had no sentimental affiliations now. He had put all his eggs in one basket and the basket had been stolen.