CHAPTER XVI
THE FIRING LINE
"Hello! Where are you fellows from?"
It was rather a sharp challenge, yet not unfriendly, that greeted Blake, Joe and Charlie, as they were walking from the house where they had been billeted, through the quaint street of the still more quaint French village. "Where are you from?"
"New York," answered Blake, as he turned to observe a tall, good-natured-looking United States infantryman regarding him and his two chums.
"New York, eh? I thought so! I'm from that burg myself, when I'm at home. Shake, boys! You're a sight for sore eyes. Not that I've got 'em, but some of the fellows have—and worse. From New York! That's mighty good! Shake again!"
And they did shake hands all around once more.
"My name's Drew—Sam Drew," announced the private. "I'm one of the doughboys that came over first with Pershing. Are you newspaper fellows?"
"No. Moving picture," answered Blake.
"You don't say so! That's great! Shake again. When are you going to give a show?"