Tom tried it once or twice desperately and then gave it up.
"I'd have to have a cold in my head to talk that way," he protested, pocketing the book in disgust. "I'm not going to try any more. The more I try the worse I get. The next time, I'm going to ask for soup, plain, old fashioned American soup. S-o-u-p. Get that? Then the waiter can do the guessing!"
"Yes, and then he'll serve you spaghetti," laughed Frank.
"So much the better," grinned Tom. "Let him go through the whole shooting match. Sooner or later he'll come to soup and when he does I'll be there."
"And you intend to eat right through the menu?" queried Billy admiringly.
"The which?" asked Tom. "Oh, you mean the bill of fare. Sure thing. I don't care whether it's soup to nuts or nuts to soup, I'll catch it coming and going."
"And you're the fellow they wouldn't let enlist on account of his teeth," moaned Billy, with a doleful shake of his head.
"They didn't know me," grinned Tom.
The army boys spent nearly a week in the barracks to get rid of their "sea legs," and then the order came to go to the new camp, right behind the lines that had been assigned to them.
It was too far for a hike and the railroads were taxed to their capacity in taking supplies to the forces at the front. But the problem was solved by a multitude of gigantic motor trucks, lorries, in which two score of men could find accommodation.