J. M. Booth proved to be a slow worker. Sergeant Gray, who had been recently mixing with all races in the Army, was quick to see that he spoke fluent English with a slight burr.
“French, aren’t you?” he asked genially while Mr. Booth shifted the scenery.
“Alsatian,” corroborated Mr. Booth. “But this is my country. I have even taken an American name. Now if you will remove the raincoat——”
Sergeant Gray moved a step nearer to him.
“Can’t,” he explained in a low tone. “Nothing under it. You’ll have to shoot as I am.”
“No uniform?”
“No uniform. What d’you think of a country that will send fellows to fight like that, eh?”
Mr. Booth’s small black eyes peered at him suspiciously.
“Is it possible?” he demanded. “This great country, so rich, and—no uniforms.”
“Uniforms!” continued Sergeant Gray, beginning to enjoy himself hugely. “Why, say, we haven’t anything! No guns worth the name, not enough shoes. Why, a fellow in my company’s wearing two rights at this minute. And as for uniforms—why, I’ll tell you this—my whole company’s going round to-day like this, slickers and nothing else.”