“I told you they’d sign,” exclaimed Frank as he gave Tom a resounding thump on the back. “Now what have you got to say for yourself, you old croaker?”
“I’m the goat,” admitted Tom with a joyous grin. “Josh all you like. I’m too happy to want to come back at you. But don’t forget,” he added, as a thought struck him, “that they may back out yet. They’re the greatest crawfishes on earth.”
“Not a chance,” chimed in Billy. “They’re down and out. Gee, wouldn’t you like to be in little old Camport this minute? Can’t you see them all out on the streets and the laughing and the crying and the shaking hands and all the rest of it?”
“Just wait till the old Thirty-seventh goes swinging through the Camport streets,” gloated Tom. “They’ll give us the town. Nothing will be too good for us.”
“We’ll surely be It with a capital I,” agree Frank happily. “If only good old Bart could be with us,” he added, and a shadow came over his face.
“That’s the one fly in the ointment,” admitted Billy. “But he will be with us and don’t you forget it. He’s liable to turn up any minute.”
“And now that the fighting is over, we may have a chance to look for him ourselves,” put in Tom. “It stands to reason he can’t be very far from here. But now let’s go to chow. We ought to have an extra good meal this morning with a lot of victory sauce to season it.”
They found the rest of the regiment as wildly excited as they were themselves, and there was a perfect Babel of voices as the matter was discussed in all its bearings.
“Look at the fellows’ faces,” chuckled Billy. “They’re like so many full moons.”
“Rather different from what they were when the Germans seemed to have the upper hand in the Spring,” grinned Frank. “If anyone then had told us that the Germans would have caved in before Christmas, we’d have thought he was crazy. But here it isn’t Thanksgiving yet and they’ve cried quits.”