ace, one in
Champagne, one in Argonne. If Andre's killed he's the fifth."

"If he'd been killed they'd have found his body--they'd have seen it
from the observation-post; you can't lose the rump and the thighs. My
idea is that the night they went on patrol he went astray coming
back--crawled right round, poor devil, and fell right into the Boche
lines."

"Perhaps he got sewn up in their wire."

"I tell you they'd have found him if he'd been done in; you know jolly
well the Boches wouldn't have brought the body in. And we looked
everywhere. As long as he's not been found you can take it from me that
he's got away somewhere on his feet, wounded or unwounded."

This so logical theory finds favor, and now it is known that Mesnil
Andre is a prisoner there is less interest in him. But his brother
continues to be a pitiable object--"Poor old chap, he's so young!" And
the men of the squad look at him secretly.

"I've got a twist!" says Cocon suddenly. The hour of dinner has gone
past and we are demanding it. There appears to be only the remains of
what was brought the night before.

"What's the corporal thinking of to starve us? There he is--I'll go and
get hold of him. Hey, corporal! Why can't you get us something to
eat?"--"Yes, yes--something to eat!" re-echoes the destiny of these
eternally hungry men.

"I'm coming," says bustling Bertrand, who keeps going both day and
night.

"What then?" says Pepin, always hot-headed. "I don't feel like chewing
macaroni again; I shall open a tin of meat in less than two secs?" The
daily comedy of dinner steps to the front again in this drama.

"Don't touch your reserve rations!" says Bertrand; "as soon as I'm back
from seeing the captain I'll get you something."

When he returns he brings and distributes a salad of potatoes and
onions, and as mastication proceeds our features relax and our eyes
become composed.

For the ceremony of eating, Paradis has hoisted a policeman's hat. It
is hardly the right place or time for it, but the hat is quite new, and
the tailor, who promised it for three months ago, only delivered it the
day we came up. The pliant two-cornered hat of bright blue cloth on his
flourishing round head gives him the look of a pasteboard gendarme with
red-painted cheeks. Nevertheless, all the while he is eating, Paradis
looks at me steadily. I go up to him. "You've a funny old face."

"Don't worry about it," he replies. "I want a chat with you. Come with
me and