“Whose jig?” asked Tom.
“The Huns’, you boob,” Frank replied exultantly. “They’ve come to the end of their string. They’re down and out—kerflummexed—ausgespielt—and if there’s anything worse than that they’re that.”
“Now,” said Billy, “come down to earth and tell us what you mean. Talk to us in plain English, so that our simple minds can take it in.”
“Simple is right,” grinned Frank. “Well, then, here goes. The Huns have applied for an armistice. They’ve thrown up the sponge. They want to quit and they say so.”
“Bully!” cried Tom. “So they’ve got enough of it at last. We’ve hammered them into pulp.”
“I knew we’d bring them to their knees,” exclaimed Billy jubilantly. “Their goose was cooked when the Yanks got into the fight. But how do you know? Where did you get the news?”
“I heard the major talking with the captain about it,” replied Frank. “I was sitting on a log cleaning my gun, and they came along and stopped to chin close to where I was. I got an earful of all that’s been going on for the last two or three weeks. It seems that the high mucka-mucks in Berlin have been reading the handwriting on the wall, and it’s been giving them the shivers. First Bulgaria caved in, then Turkey followed suit. Both of them have surrendered and are out of the war. Austria took a last chance and the Italians have smashed her to bits and captured five hundred thousand men.”
The boys gasped.
“You’re kidding us,” protested Billy.
“Not a bit of it,” denied Frank. “I’m giving it to you straight. They’ve just gone down one after the other like a row of dominoes. And now Germany has made up her mind that she’ll have to eat crow, too. The Huns sent a letter to President Wilson asking him to take steps toward giving them an armistice.”