“Oh, we'll see them soon enough, if they're still in Paris,” said Tom, gazing curiously at his chum. “But they don't know we are coming here.”
“Yes, they do,” said Jack, quietly.
“They do? Then you must have written.”
“Of course. Don't you want to see them before we get shipped off to a new sector?”
“Why, yes. Just now, though, I'm anxious to hear some good, old United States talk. Come on, let's speak to 'em. There's one bunch that seems to be in trouble.”
But the trouble was only because some of Pershing's boys—as they were generally called wanted to make some purchases at a candy shop and did not know enough of the language to make their meaning clear. It was a good-natured misunderstanding, and both the French shop-keeper and his helper and the doughboys were laughing over it.
“Hello, boys! Glad to see you! Can we help you out?” asked Tom, as he and Jack joined the group.
The infantrymen whirled about.
“Well, for the love of the Mason an' Dixon line! is there somebody heah who can speak our talk?” cried one lad, his accent unmistakably marking him as Southern.
“Guess we can help you out,” said Jack. “We're from God's country, too,” and in an instant the were surrounded and being shaken hands with on all sides, while a perfect barrage of questions was fired at them.