He stooped over, preparatory to gathering up his belongings, when Shannon stopped him.
“Leave the department store there, Don,” he remarked. “We’ll send some of the Annamites over to wrestle with ’em. Now come along.”
The “Annamites,” both Don and George knew, were the little yellow-skinned Indo-Chinese, who had journeyed from far-off Asia to give their services to the French Government.
Led by Tom Dorsey, the crowd began to pilot the new student and his chum toward headquarters. To Don Hale it was all wonderfully interesting. The boy was filled with that eager curiosity and anticipation which is one of the glorious possessions of youth. A new life—indeed a startlingly strange life, would soon be opening out before him—one that held vast possibilities, and also terrifying dangers. Whither would it lead him?
“I say, young chap”—Ben Holt’s voice broke in upon his thoughts—“you’ve got to mind your eye in this place. No talking back to officers; no overstaying your leave, eh, Monsieur Nightingale?”
“Oh, cut it out!” snapped Mittengale.
“Yes, there’s a chap who knows!” Holt chuckled. “One day Roy thought he’d enjoy a few extra hours in Paree—result: a nice little chamber two stories underground; a rattling good wooden bench, but uncommonly hard, as a bed; a bottle of water for company and eight days of delightful idleness, to meditate upon the inconsiderate ways of military men.”
“It was well worth it,” growled Mittengale. “Some tender-hearted chaps smuggled in paper and I wrote sixty-four pages of my book entitled ‘Life and Adventures of an Airman in France!’”
“An airman in France!” snickered Ben. “There’s nerve for you! Why, he hasn’t even been above the three hundred foot level yet.”
“Well, that’s just about two hundred and seventy-five feet higher than your best record,” retorted Mittengale, witheringly. “Don’t talk, you poor little grasshop.”