Some day I think I shall write on essay on the psychology of suggestion as demonstrated in canteen sales. Nothing, it seems, ever really wins the boys’ approval unless it bears the label; “Made in the U. S. A.”—nothing that is, with the possible exception of eggs. Anything originating in Europe, from mustard to matches, is looked upon with a certain amount of suspicion, while goods coming from America are hailed with an enthusiasm often quite inconsistent with their quality. The other day we put a case of “Fig Newtons” on sale. The news flashed all over town. As one of the boys said; “Why it was just as if General Pershing or somebody’s mother had come to camp.”
Lately we have had for sale quantities of fat French cookies. Some of the boys are mean enough to suggest that these were baked before the war.
“Those cookies ought to wear service stripes,” one boy declared.
So “Service Stripe Cookies” they have been ever since.
“They’re all right for eating,” observed another customer solemnly, “but the Lord help you if you drop one on your toe!” This morning when I reached the hut I found Jones languidly washing dishes.
“Where’s Neddy?”
“Neddy? Why he’s in the guard-house.”
For a moment I was goose enough to believe it, then I learned that Neddy, with a lieutenant and some twenty other boys, had all gone off, the day being Sunday, on single mounts to Domremy to visit the birthplace of Jeanne D’Arc. Late in the afternoon the little cavalcade returned.
“Neddy,” I teased, “I hear you’ve been in the guard-house.”
To my astonishment Neddy’s mouth twitched, his eyes filled. “I wish I’d never gone!” he blurted out.