g a tray of rolls
on his head.

"For the luva Mike, Tim," shouted an ambulance man, "do you call that a
prisoner?"

"Sure he does look like a half portion," replied Sergeant Tim with a
smile. "We got two hundred francs for a whole one. I don't know what we
can cash this one in for."

"He ought to be worth more," some one said; "that barrage cost a million
dollars. He's the million dollar baby of the raid."

"Sergeant, I'm not kidding," came one serious voice. "Why turn him in as
a prisoner? I like the kid's looks. Why can't we keep him for the
company mascot?"

The discussion ended when the Sergeant and his small charge disappeared
in the Colonel's quarters for the inevitable questioning that all
prisoners must go through. Several wounded were lying on the stretchers
in front of the first aid dugout waiting for returning ambulances and
passing the time meanwhile by smoking cigarettes and explaining how
close each of them had been to the shell that exploded and "got 'em."

But little of the talk was devoted to themselves. They were all praise
for the little chaplain from New England who, without arms, went over
the top with "his boys" and came back with them. It was their opinion
that their regiment had some sky pilot. And it was mine, also.

CHAPTER XIV

ON LEAVE IN PARIS

"So this--is Paris,"--this observation spoken in mock seriousness, in a
George Cohan nasal drawl and accompanied by a stiff and stagy wave of
the arm, was the customary facetious pass-word with which American
soldiers on leave or on mission announced their presence in the capital
of France.

Paris, the beautiful--Paris, the gay--Paris, the historical--Paris, the
artistic--Paris, the only Paris, opened her arms to the American soldier
and proceeded toward his enlightenment and entertainment on the sole
policy that nothing was too good for him.

I saw the first American soldiers under arms reach Paris. It was early
in the morning of July 3rd, 1917, when this first American troop train
pulled into the Gare d'Austerlitz. It was early in the morning, yet
Paris was there to give them a welcome. The streets outside the station
were jammed with crowds. They had seen Pershing; they had seen our staff
officers and headquarters details, but now they wanted to see the type
of our actual fighting men--they wanted to see the American poilus--the
men who were to carry the Stars and Stripes over the top.

The men left the cars and lined up in