Tiffin goes on outpost and reports three civilians approaching.
“Now, who can they be, I wonder?”
“Newspaper men probably.”
“Good Lord! I hope not.”
“Another American mission.”
“That's my guess, too.”
Rodman is right. It is another American mission coming to “study conditions” at the front.
“But unofficially, gentlemen, quite unofficially,” says Mr. A., its head, a tall, melancholy-looking man, with a deep, bell-like voice. Mr. B., the second member of the mission, is in direct contrast, a birdlike little man, who twitters about the room, from group to group.
“Oh! If you boys only knew how splendid you are! How much we in America—You are our first representatives at the front, you know. You are the vanguard of the millions who—” etc.
Miller looks at me solemnly. His eyes are saying, “How long, O Lord, how long!”