-comers in a tent
in the corner of the camp. The Irishman was there, still lamenting in
picturesque phrases the loss of his two prisoners.

"And the biggest of them--a fine figure of a man he was--had the
beautifullest helmet on him that ever was seen; worth twenty francs it
was, any day, and me without a penny in my pocket But where was it after
the shell bursted? Tell me that if you can."

The Canadian was there, patiently ready to listen to any story, having
apparently no story of his own to tell. Wakeman began again.

"It was the Prussian Guard," he said, "and we gave them proper hell, we
did, out in the open. No blasted machine guns. Just them and us with the
bayonet And----"

He talked in vain. In the tent were beds, real beds with mattresses of
woven wire, and palliasses stuffed with straw. Stretched flat on his
back the Irishman snored. His head pillowed on his folded arm the
Canadian slept peacefully, a quiet smile, like a child's, on his face.
Wakeman looked at them and snorted with contempt For him no sleep was
possible. He pulled a bench to the door of the tent, and sat in the
sunshine. He found the lid of a cigarette tin and set to work to scrape
the mud off his clothes and boots. But the work wearied him. With a
piece of string he laced up the long rent in his trousers, cutting
holes in the material with the blade of a knife. Then, still obstinately
disinclined for sleep, he went out to explore the camp.

At one end of the camp is a hut, a long, low building. It is one of
those canteens and recreation huts, which, working through various
organizations, the public at home provides for the men in France. They
are familiar enough to everyone in France, and the men know that there
is a welcome for them however often they pass the doors. In this hut
Mrs. Jocelyn works all day long and every day.

Sometimes she cooks, making vast puddings, stewing cauldrons full of
prunes or figs. Sometimes she stands behind the counter serving bowls
of tea, coffee, cocoa, lemonade, to thirsty men. Sometimes, half
asphyxiated with tobacco smoke, she sits at the piano and hammers out
rag-time tunes, while the men crowd round her, their faces close to her
as they peer at the music, their voices threatening her with deafness
when they bellow in her ears. Sometimes she sits for an hour beside some
dull-eyed victim of shell shock, patiently trying to coax or trick him
back to some interest in life again, giving him, literally,