Into a château which presumably belonged to the overlord of the village the party carried their food. The pullets had been prepared for frying, potatoes were sizzling in a large kettle of grease, a table had been laid with a crisp linen cloth.
The party was seated around a large table. Upon the linen cloth were china plates and silver knives and forks. In the centre were dishes piled high with fried chicken and potatoes. A salad brightened the menu. Wine-glasses and tumblers were filled and dust-covered bottles stood near at hand, ready to replenish them.
“This is what you might call the life of Riley.” Sergeant Ryan spoke with his soft voice that almost broke into a chuckle.
“I’ll tell the world. Jist like New York.”
“Gittin’ lost ain’t hard to take. Jist think of the rest of the outfit, snappin’ into it whenever Harriman opens his yap.”
The glasses were emptied and refilled. It was a religious ceremony.
“Now if some of them dames we seen at Meaux was up here.”
Suddenly Hicks started to laugh, long and loudly.
“What you laughin’ at? Is there anything funny in my wantin’ a little company? ’Course these Frog gals ain’t as nice as....”
“No, no. It wasn’t that at all. But we were going to save these people’s homes—and now we’re killing their chickens.”