"Yes, the major is in," he said, "but he won't see you till you shake hands with me."
Both officers thought they were face to face with a nut. Then, as they recognized their old teacher, two hands shot and grasped both of his.
"Well, I'll be darned—you haven't changed a bit!" was all the French they could remember.
HIS IS NOT A HAPPY LOT
SAYS ARMY POSTAL CLERK
——
Works Eighteen Hours a Day and Has To Be Both
a Directory of the A. E. F. and a
Sherlock Holmes.
——
"Private Wolfe Tone Moriarity, Fighting Umpth, France."
The Army Postal Service clerk surveyed the battered envelope on the desk [before him,] pushed his worn Stetson back from a forehead the wrinkles in which resembled a much fought-over trench system, adjusted his glasses to his weary eyes, spat, and remarked:
"Easy! The 'Fighting Umpth' was changed over into the Steenhundred and Umpty-umpth, wasn't it? The last that was heard from them they were at Blankville-sur-Bum. Now they've moved to Bingville-le-somethingorother. Clerk! Shove this in Box 4-11-44!"
"Lieutenant Brown, care American Army, somewhere in France."
Again the Postal Service man, once-overed the envelope, purplish in hue, went through the motions of pushing back his hat, expectorated, and began: