“What are you doing? What are you doing here?” Jimmy demanded.
“I’m in the Intelligence. And you—?”
“Intelligence officer of this regiment.... And only a second lieutenant. Ought to be a captain. Doing a captain’s work. Say”—he was a sudden young man—“wait till I get my tin lid and cane and we’ll go to see the sights. How long are you here?”
“Bring on your sights,” said Kendall. “While you are exhibiting I can get from you what I came for.”
“Wish you could stay. We’ve got a darn good mess. Not as good as we had the first few days, but good.”
“Why the first few days?”
“We went out and gathered up stuff to eat—to save it from the boche.”
“Foraging, eh?”
“Not exactly. We gathered it in and ate it to prevent its giving aid and comfort to the enemy. One day we got a pig at eleven-thirty and had chops for lunch at one. The colonel said that pork was too close to being pig for him. Next day we had rabbits. Speared them with pitchforks. There was a bully strawberry-patch up the line and we had plenty until a regiment of Senegalese moved in and looted it. There’s a patch of gooseberries in No Man’s Land, and we have the devil’s own time keeping the men from going out after them.”
As they passed out and through the barn into the woods Kendall explained his errand, and the conversation became technical. Whatever else he might have been, Jimmy Martin was engrossed in his particular job and, apparently, was admirably efficient. The greater part of the data Kendall wanted was at Jimmy’s tongue’s end; the rest would be readily obtainable from available records of Martin’s work.