"Oh, can the croak!" exclaimed Jimmy impatiently. "We came out to enjoy ourselves. What's the use in dragging up the horror stuff?"
"So think I," agreed Ignace, who had been listening round-eyed to Bob's dire surmising. "We ver' smart, so then we don' be it that prisonar. I no like."
"You don't? I'm surprised," bantered Bob. "I thought you were just aching to be run in by a Boche patrol."
"Now you mak' the fon to me," snickered Ignace. "Only you wait. Som' day I mak' the fon to you."
"Go as far as you like," challenged Bob, grinning benevolently at his Polish Brother.
"Come on," urged Jimmy. "Let's settle with the garcon, and beat it. Where did he go to, anyhow? He was standing right over there a minute ago."
Five pairs of eyes immediately busied themselves in an effort to locate the waiter.
"He's in the kitchen, I guess. Don't see him. He'll show up in a minute."
Leaning back in his chair, Roger continued idly to survey the few diners scattered about the café. His eyes rested amusedly upon a pair of elderly Frenchmen, who appeared to be conducting a vigorous argument. Their wagging heads, shrugging shoulders, and the almost continual play of their hands entertained him immensely.
"Look at those two old grandpas over there near the door," he said to Bob, who was seated beside him. "I'll bet you most anything they're arguing about the war. They're not a bit huffy with each other; just dead in earnest."