"By gad, yes. How many of these chaps will be singing 'It's a long way to Tipperary' in a month from now? How many aching hearts are there because of this business? Yes, Nancarrow, you were right, war was born in hell, but we must see it through."
When they landed on French soil, they were received with great jubilation.
"Vive les anglais!" was the cry on every hand. Old men with tears in their eyes welcomed them; old women vied with each other in showering blessings upon them; young girls followed them with shouts of laughter, yet with sobs in their laughter, and wished them every blessing.
"Yes, monsieur," cried an old dame to Bob, as he entered a fruit-shop, "take what you will. You English are our friends, our saviours. We French did not want to fight, but the Germans forced us. And then, voilà! You came forward like the friends you are, and you say, 'Down with the German eagle. France shall have fair play.' No, no, I will take no payment. Take what you will."
"But you are, perhaps, poor, madame!" urged Bob. "This war has made it hard for you."
"Hard! Ah, you say the truth. We have a garden near by. My husband and sons worked in it—now they are all gone. My husband and four sons went, but two of my sons are dead—killed."
"Perhaps they are only taken prisoners."
"And is not that death? What is life in a German prison but death? But, never mind, I have my husband and two sons still alive—but no, I will not take your money. Perhaps you have a mother, young monsieur?"
"Yes," replied Bob, and the picture of his mother sitting alone in the old home at St. Ia flashed before his eyes.
"Ah, yes, I see," said the old woman. "I see. But perhaps you have brothers, sisters?"