"Haven't you got an Irish father or mother or aren't any of your people Irish?" asked one of the correspondents hopefully. He was committed to the red-headed story and he was not prepared to give up yet. "Not one of 'em," said the sergeant, "I haven't got a drop of Irish blood in me. I come from South Bend, Indiana."
The party left the gunner rather disconsolately. That is, all but the hopeful correspondent. "He's Irish, all right," he said. We turned on the optimist.
"Didn't you hear him say he wasn't Irish?" we shouted.
"Oh, that's all right," answered the optimist, "you didn't expect he was going to admit it. They never do."
"Say," inquired another reporter, "did anybody notice what was the color of the sergeant's hair?"
I had, but I said nothing. There had been disillusion enough for one day. It was black with a little gray around the temples.
The lieutenant took us to his dugout and we tried to get some copy out of him. A man from an evening newspaper spoiled our chances right away.
"I suppose," he said, "that you made a little speech to the men before they fired that first shot?"
The little lieutenant was professional in an instant. He felt a sudden fear that his manner or his youth had led us to picture him as a romantic figure.
"What would I make a speech for?" he inquired coldly.