“'Oh, I wouldn't have ye get the idea that we set and sob and talk mush and look sorrowful there. If you just grabbed a look at us and went on you'd say we were no Hamlets. Gosh, no! We play cards and joke and laugh and tell stories a plenty. You wouldn't get what's down under it all unless some feller kind o' confessed and turned state's evidence. No, sir—I don't believe you would.
“'I'm just telling ye enough to make ye understand why We went out to Peronne that Christmas Day and what happened to us there. I speak French pretty glib—that's another reason why we went. My mother was a Louisiana French woman. I got it from her when I was a little chap—never forgot it—and I bossed a gang of Frenchmen for two years.
“'We found a man who ran a little grocery shop and restaurant down in one of the old cellars. He had had a fine big café up-stairs before the German army swatted the town with dynamite. He was a sad little man who lived down there in the lamplight with his wife. The Huns had carried their two daughters away with them. He had cleaned the litter out of his cellars and repaired their walls and so they had a home and something to do.
“'I asked him if he could get up a good dinner for us.
“'"Oui, Monsieur,” he answered promptly. “I can get you a fine duck and celery and preserved strawberries, and I could make a little pastry.”
“'"How much for the dinner?”
“'"Thirty francs—I can not make it less.”
“'"Make it forty and we'll call it a bargain,” I urged.
“'You should have seen the smile on his face then.
“'"Les Americans! They always talk like that—God be with them!” he said. “Trust me, Monsieur. I will make you happy.”