into line and marched slowly through the
galley where their plates and cups were filled and a butcher was kept
busy demolishing large portions of a cow. They sprawled about anywhere
they pleased, eating.

To Tom it was like a scout picnic on a mammoth scale. Here and there was
noticeable a glum, bewildered face, but for the most part the soldiers
(drafted or otherwise) seemed bent on having the time of their lives. It
could not be said that they were without patriotism, but their one
thought now seemed to be to make merry. Tom's customary stolidness
disappeared in the face of this great mirthful drive and he sat on the
edge of the hatch, his white jacket conspicuous by contrast, and smiled
broadly.

He wondered whether any other country in the world could produce such a
slangy, jollying, devil-may-care host as these vociferous American
soldiers. How he longed to be one of them!

A slim young soldier elbowed his way through the throng and, supper in
hand, seated himself on the hatch beside Tom. He had the smallest
possible mustache, with pointed ends, and his demeanor was gentlemanly
and friendly. Even his way of stirring his coffee seemed different from
the rough and tumble fashion of the others.

"These are _stirring_ times, hey, Frenchy?" a soldier said.

"Yess--zat is verry good--_stirring times_," the young fellow answered,
in appreciation of the joke. Then, turning to Tom, he said, "Zis is ze
Bartholdi statue, yess? I am from ze West."

"That's the Statue of Liberty," said Tom. "You'll see it better when we
pass it."

"Ah, yess! zis is ze first; I haf' nevaire seen. I zank you."

"Do you know why the Statue of Liberty looks so sad, Frenchy?" a soldier
asked. "Because she's facing Brooklyn."

"Do you know why she's got her arm up?" another called.

Frenchy was puzzled.

"She represents the American woman hanging onto a strap in the subway."

"Don't let them jolly you, Frenchy," another said.

Frenchy, a little bewildered, laughed good-humoredly as the bantering
throng plied him with absurdities.

"Are you French?" Tom asked, as some new victim diverted the attention
of the boys.

"Ah, no! I am Americ'."

"But you were born in France?"

"Yess--zey call it Zhermany, but it is France! I take ze coat from you.
Still it is yours. Am I right? I am born in Alsace. Zat is France!"

"Doncher believe him, kiddo!" said a soldier. "He was born in Germany.
Look on the map."

"He's a German spy, Whitey;