“Then I’ll be pleased to interpret for you. You see, if a French soldier wants to confide a state secret to an English-speaking comrade, and if he doesn’t know a word of English, nor the other chap any French,—what’s to be did?”
“Oh, I see!” cried Helen, “they call you in!”
“Exactly, Miss Barlow. And being conversant with and fluent in all known tongues,—I’m just a walking Tower of Babel.”
“A walking dictionary, you mean,” laughed Helen. “I think that’s a pretty fine position you hold. I never heard of it before. What’s your rank?”
“Lieutenant,—very much at your service, Mademoiselle. Shortly, I shall don my khaki, and then I hope, at last, I’ll be respected by my fellow men.”
“That’s so, Chick,” said Patty, mercilessly, “you’ve always been such a cutup—well, of course, you were respected,—but nobody really stood in awe of you. But a Lieutenant,—oh, I’m proud of my friends!”
“Isn’t it glorious!” cried Helen, and she flew to the piano and began playing patriotic airs. They all joined and a brave chorus of young voices rang out the avowal that the Yanks were coming over there!
So enthusiastically did Helen pound the keys that her hair shook loose from its pins and came tumbling round her shoulders.
“Now, now, Bumble,” remonstrated Patty, “don’t do so,—it isn’t done! Here, I’ll fix it for you.”
But Helen only laughed, and nimbly twisted up her tousled locks, and thrust hairpins in to hold them in a hard and unbecoming knot at the back of her head.