"You're all there when it comes to the gray matter, old man," was Bart's tribute.
A day later, part of their reward came in a week's furlough that was granted them for "specially gallant conduct," as the order of the day expressed it. The rest was welcome, for it was the first they had had since they had landed on French soil, and they had been under a strain of hard work and harder fighting that had taxed even their strong vitality to the utmost.
And that week stood out forever in their memory like an oasis in a desert. They spent it in a little French town miles away from the firing line and even beyond the sound of the guns. They fished and swam and loafed and slept as though there was no such thing as war in the world. No reveille to wake them in the morning, no taps to send them to their beds at night. For the first time in months they were their own masters, and they enjoyed their brief liberty to the full.
Yet even here in this "little bit of heaven" as Tom expressed it, they could not be wholly free from war's reminder.
They were sprawling one day outside their cottage when an officer came along, gorgeous in epaulets and gold lace.
"See who's coming!" exclaimed Tom peevishly. "Now we'll have to get up and salute."
"I suppose so," said Billy reluctantly.
"Can't we pretend, we don't see him?" yawned Bart sleepily, clutching at a straw of hope.
"Not a chance in the world," declared Frank. "He's looking right at us."
They stood up as the officer approached and saluted respectfully. He returned the salute snappishly and glared at them sternly.