Corporal Bob Owens came swinging in to throw his sombrero down.
"What's the orders, Bob?" some one inquired.
"We're going to rest here," he replied.
The news was taken impatiently by several and agreeably by the majority. They were all travel-stained and worn. Dorn did not comment on the news, but the fact was that he hated the French villages. They were so old, so dirty, so obsolete, so different from what he had been accustomed to. But he loved the pastoral French countryside, so calm and picturesque. He reflected that soon he would see the devastation wrought by the Huns.
"Any news from the front?" asked Dixon.
"I should smile," replied the corporal, grimly.
"Well, open up, you clam!"
Owens thereupon told swiftly and forcibly what he had heard. More advance of the Germans—it was familiar news. But somehow it was taken differently here within sound of the guns. Dorn studied his comrades, wondering if their sensations were similar to his. He expressed nothing of what he felt, but all the others had something to say. Hard, cool, fiery, violent speech that differed as those who uttered it differed, yet its predominant note rang fight.
"Just heard a funny story," said Owens, presently.
"Spring it," somebody replied.