d hopped; bending over a cluster of white phlox in a glass of water to
inhale the old-fashioned perfume, she finally tied on a fresh apron and
walked slowly out to the ancient, vaulted kitchen.

An old peasant woman was cooking, while a young one washed dishes.

"Are the American gentlemen still at table, Julie?" she inquired.

"Mademoiselle Maryette, they are devouring everything in the house!"
exclaimed old Julie, flinging both hands toward heaven. "_Tenez_,
mamzelle, I have heard of eating in ancient days, I have read of
Gargantua, I have been told of banquets, of feasting, of appetites! But
there is one American in there! Mamzelle Maryette, if I should swear to
you that he is on his third chicken and that a row of six pint bottles of
'93 Margaux stand empty on the cloth at his elbow, I should do no penance
for untruthfulness. _Tenez, Mamzelle Maryette, regardez un peu par
l'oubliette_--" And old Julie slid open the wooden shutter on the crack
and Maryette bent forward and surveyed the dining room outside.

They were laughing very loud in there, these three Americans--three
powerful, sun-scorched young men, very much at their ease around the
table, draining the red Bordeaux by goblets, plying knife and fork with
joyous and undiminished vigour.

The tall one with the crisp hair and clear, grayish eyes--he of the three
chickens--was already achieving the third--a crisply browned bird, fresh
from the spit, fragrant and smoking hot. At intervals he buttered great
slices of rye bread, or disposed of an entire young potato, washing it
down with a goblet of red wine, but always he returned to the rich roasted
fowl which he held, still impaled upon its spit, and which he carved as he
ate, wings, legs, breast falling in steaming flakes under his skillful
knife blade.

Sticky Smith finally pushed aside his drained glass and surveyed an empty
plate frankly and regretfully, unable to continue. He said:

"I'm going to bed and I'm going to sleep twenty-four hours. After that I'm
going to eat for twenty-four more hours, and then I'll be in good shape.
Bong soir."

"Aw, stick around with the push!" remonstrated Kid Glenn thickly, impaling
another potato upon his fork and gesticulating with it.

Smith gazed with surfeited but hopeless envy upon Burley's magnificent
work with knife and fork, saw him crack a seventh bottle of Bordeaux,
watched him empty the first goblet.

But even Glenn's eyes began to dull in spite of himsel