isunderstanding. With a few racial exceptions, Our
Square was vehemently pro-Ally. In spirit we fought with valiant France
and prayed for heroic Belgium. What a Godspeed we gave to the few sons
of Gaul who, in those early days, left us to fight the good fight! How
sourly we looked upon Plooie continuing his peaceful rounds. Whence
arose the rumor, I cannot say, but it was noised about just at that time
of wrath and tension that Plooie was born in Liege. Liege, that city of
fire and slaughter and heroism, upon which the eyes and hopes of the
world were turned in wonder and admiration. Somebody had seen the entry
on the marriage register! The Bonnie Lassie told me of it, pausing at my
bench with a little furrow between her bright eyes.

"Dominie, you know Emile Garin pretty well?"

"Not at all," I replied, failing to identify the rickety Plooie by his
rightful name.

"Of course you do! Never a morning but he stops at your bench and asks
if you have an umbrella to mend."

"I never have. What of him?"

"Have you any influence with him?"

"Not compared with yours."

The Bonnie Lassie made a little gesture of despair. "I can't find him.
And Annie Oombrella won't tell me where he is. She only cries."

"That's bad. You think he--he is--"

"Why don't you say it outright, Dominie? _You_ think he's hiding."

"Really!" I expostulated. "You come to me with accusations against the
poor fellow and then undertake to make me responsible for them."

"I don't believe it's true at all," averred the Bonnie Lassie loyally.
"I don't believe Plooie is a coward. There's some reason why he doesn't
go over and help! I want to know what it is."

Perceiving that I was expected to provide excuses for the erring one, I
did my best. "Over age," I suggested.

"He's only thirty-two."

"Bless me! He looks sixty. Well--physical infirmity."

"He can carry a load all day."

"He won't leave Annie Oombrella, then. Or perhaps she won't let him."

"When I asked her, she cried harder than ever and said that her mother
was French and she would go and fight herself, if they'd have her."

"Then I give it up. What does your Olympian wisdom make of it?"

"I don't know. But I'm afraid the Garins are going to have trouble."

Within a few days Plooie reappeared and his strident falsetto appeal for
trade rang shrill in the space of Our Square. Trouble developed at once.
Small boys booed at him, called him "yellow," and advised him to go
carefully,