men in
France.

The old man shrugged his shoulders, elevated his hand, palm outward, and
signified with an expression of his face that it was useless to argue
further for the benefit of these Americans. He turned and gave the
necessary loading orders to his working force.

That working force consisted of two French girls, each about eighteen
years of age. They wore long baggy bloomers of brown corduroy, tight at
the ankles where they flopped about in folds over clumsy wooden shoes.
They wore blouses of the same material and tam o'shanter hats to match,
called _berets_.

Each one of them had a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.
One stood on the ground and tossed up the thirty or forty-pound logs to
her sister who stood above on top of the wagon. The latter caught them
in her extended arms and placed them in a pile. To the best of my
recollection, neither one of the girls missed a puff.

While the loading proceeded, the wood merchant, speaking slowly in
French, made us understand the following:

"Many peculiar things happen in the war, Monsieur," he said. "Your
country, the America, is the land of wonders. Listen, my name is Helois.
Ten days ago there came to me one of the washerwomen who clean the
clothes on the banks of the Meurthe, and she said to me:

"'Ah, Monsieur, the wood merchant. You are the sly fox. I have your
secret.' And I say to her that I know not of what she speaks.

"'You boast in the town that your two sons are at the front,' she said,
'but I know that one at least of them is not.' And I was dumbfounded. I
say to her, 'Woman, it is a lie you tell me. Both of my boys are with
their regiments, in the trenches even now, if by the grace of the good
God they still live.'

"'No,' she say to me, 'one of your sons hides in the hotel of Madame
Larue. How do I know this secret, Monsieur the wood merchant? I know
because this day have I washed the shirt, with his name on it, at the
river bank. His name, Helois,--the Lieutenant Helois--was stamped on the
collar and the shirt came from the hotel, La Fontaine.'

"I tell her that it is a mistake--that it is the great injustice to me
she speaks, and that night I dressed in my best clothes to penetrate
this mystery--to meet this man who disgracefully used the name of my
son--to expose this impostor who would bring shame to the name of
Helois, the wood merchant, whose two sons have been fighting for France
these three long years.

"And so, Mons