The last mouthful gone, the cider bottles empty, they tighten the straps of their kit bags and rise regretfully from their seats.
"Allez. Off again, boys! C'est la guerre!" and they shuffle away humming and filling their pipes.
From the direction of the buvette, or bar comes noisy laughter followed by oaths. The uncertain voice of a seemingly intoxicated individual dominates all others. Yet nothing but soft drinks are sold.
"As the Colonel of the 243rd used to say," it continues, "'Soldiers of my regiment, repose upon your arms!' My arms are the bottle! My bottle and my wife are the only things worth while when I'm on furlough. I——"
His voice disappeared an instant, dimmed by the rising tumult. Then suddenly it broke forth anew—
"Attention! Present arms, here comes a coal scuttle. Now then,—flatten out on the back of your stomach!"
An instant later the man appeared at the threshold of the dining room.
He was a heavily built, big jointed, husky Norman farmer-soldier, with his helmet pulled down low over his eyes, so that the upper part of his face was completely hidden from view.
Suddenly he pushed it far back on his head, and casting a sweeping glance over the assembled diners, he called forth in stentorian tones that made every one turn around:
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!"