itory. Also how the German guns get the range at once. And other
such things. All of which the paperhanger listened to in thoughtful
silence and then told a tale.

"An officer in the uniform of your Army, monsieur, strolled up to my
company one day. He was very pleasant, and his French was so good--not
too good, just the kind of French that you English messieurs"--he bowed
apologetically to me--"usually speak. Oh! he was very clever. And he
talked with our captain about the battle for a long time. And then our
captain noticed something--two things. First, monsieur, the English
officer was very troubled with his eyes--he was always applying a large
white handkerchief to the pupil. And it occur to the captain that the
English officers do not carry white handkerchiefs but 'khaki.' What was
the matter with the officer's eye? It could not be a fly--the weather
was too cold; it had been raining. It could not be the dust; the ground
was too wet. And the German shells--they begin to fall right in the
midst of us--they had been so wide before. So the captain was very
concerned for monsieur l'officier's eyes, and he takes him aside very
politely and says he had better see the doctor. A _sous-officier_ and
two men shall take him to the doctor. Which they do. Only the 'doctor'
was the _liaison_ officer with our brigade--an English officer. And he
finds that the officer is a spy--a Bosche. He have no more trouble with
his eyes," added the paperhanger laconically. It was too good a story to
spoil by cross-examination, so I left it at that.

"You like the bayonet?" I asked.

"Ah, yes! we love the bayonet. It is a _bon enfant_," said the
_sous-officier_. "And they can't fence (_escrimer_), the Bosches--they
are too _lourds_. I remember we caught them once in a quarry. Our men
fought like tiger-cats--so quick, so agile. And you know, monsieur, no
one said a word. Nor a sound except the clash of steel." His eyes
flashed at the recollection. "They make a funny noise when you go
through them--they grunt, _comme un cochon_." Perhaps I shuddered
slightly. "Ah, yes! monsieur, but they play such dirty tricks (_ruses
honteuses_). Of course they cry out in French, and put up their hands
after they have shot down our comrades under their white flags." He gave
a snort of contempt.

"What do they cry?"

"Oh, all kinds of things. 'I have a wife and eight children.' The German
pig has a big litter." He looked, and no doubt felt himself to be, a