“I give you a kees;” said a girl. “You big fine Americans!”
The salutations were as unlike our home calls as were the city and its buildings. The buildings were crowded together as though land were scarce, they were of stone with carvings and copper ornaments, which even the soldier would notice, they were so fine.
We wanted to break loose and see France and talk to the people, but discipline held us in line. To men who had been confined for three weeks in narrow, stifling ship quarters, the air was invigorating.
We reached the station on schedule time, and were embarked on third class cars, a squad of eight men to a compartment. No dogs were allowed, but I got Muddy in all the same, the guard taking pains not to see him.
To Americans, accustomed to our large coaches, these little box-like cars seemed like toys.
“Sho!” said Sam, “do they intend to give us one apiece? They are like baby carriages!”
They were, however, fairly comfortable, but after jolting along for several hours, when the train stopped, naturally every one wanted to get out. Our officers had a full-sized man’s job to get them back again on time.
Peter Beaudett, a French Canadian Yankee, protested, “I was saying something to a fine leetle girl; she speak de French to me.”
Then we steamed on again, and after some hours we stopped at a station for hot coffee, then rode all night.
“I didn’t suppose,” said Sam Jenkins, “that France was big enough for so much travel.”