te
of such methods, deep, recoiling distrust of them, clouded the
cheesewoman's brow as she threw her money into the drawer and
turned the key on it.

As for the doughboys, having once stubbed their toes on the
sunken step, they examined it with interest, and went in to
explore the church. It was in their minds that they must not let
a church escape, any more than they would let a Boche escape.
Within they came upon a bunch of their shipmates, including the
Kansas band, to whom they boasted that their Lieutenant could
"speak French like a native."

The Lieutenant himself thought he was getting on pretty well, but
a few hours later his pride was humbled. He was sitting alone in
a little triangular park beside another church, admiring the
cropped locust trees and watching some old women who were doing
their mending in the shade. A little boy in a black apron, with a
close-shaved, bare head, came along, skipping rope. He hopped
lightly up to Claude and said in a most persuasive and confiding
voice,

"Voulez-vous me dire l'heure, s'il vous plait, M'sieu' l'
soldat?"

Claude looked down into his admiring eyes with a feeling of
panic. He wouldn't mind being dumb to a man, or even to a pretty
girl, but this was terrible. His tongue went dry, and his face
grew scarlet. The child's expectant gaze changed to a look of
doubt, and then of fear. He had spoken before to Americans who
didn't understand, but they had not turned red and looked angry
like this one; this soldier must be ill, or wrong in his head.
The boy turned and ran away.

Many a serious mishap had distressed Claude less. He was
disappointed, too. There was something friendly in the boy's face
that he wanted... that he needed. As he rose he ground his
heel into the gravel. "Unless I can learn to talk to the CHILDREN
of this country," he muttered, "I'll go home!"

II

Claude set off to find the Grand Hotel, where he had promised to
dine with Victor Morse. The porter there spoke English. He called
a red-headed boy in a dirty uniform and told him to take the
American to vingt-quatre. The boy also spoke English. "Plenty
money in New York, I guess! In France, no money." He made their
way, through musty corridors and up slippery staircases, as long
as possible, shrewdly eyeing the visitor and rubbing his thumb
nervously against his fingers all the while.

"Vingt-quatre, twen'y-four," he announced, rapping at a door with
one hand and suggestively opening th