The ambulanciers found themselves quite the center of attraction, and so much good humor and jollity around them went very far toward effacing from the minds of all the remembrance of their recent peril.
Dunstan very aptly described the play presented by the amateur actors as "rip-roaring farce." A great many most extraordinary things occurred during the "Poilu's Ten Days in Paris," and the pleasure of witnessing all these laughable episodes was considerably enhanced, at least according to the ideas of the boys, by the choruses, in which the audience generally joined. An orchestra of five did valiant service.
Altogether the Americans enjoyed the performance hugely, though several times the explosions of shells sounded with unpleasant distinctness.
After it was all over Don, Dunstan and Chase met so many poilus who were eager to converse with them, especially on the subject of America's entrance into the great war, that their departure was long delayed—so long delayed indeed that an idea came into the art student's head.
"Fellows," he said, "there's a great deal in first impressions."
"What's the sequel to that remark?" asked Chase.
"It just occurred to me that we might tarry around here even longer, so that we might get our first view of the famous Château de Morancourt by the mystic light of the moon."
"'Peewee' should have heard that!" chuckled Don.
"If your artistic spirit craves that shadows and gloom should hover over the old pile of stones and make it suggest a picture-postal, so be it," grinned Chase.
"Very good!" said Dunstan.