,
monsieur!" and disappeared.

The old woman looked at him at first with disfavour. She did not hold
with Tommies needlessly tramping over the clean flags of her kitchen.
But Doggie's polite apology for disturbing her and a youthful grace of
manner--he still held his tin hat under his arm--caused her features
to relax.

"You are English?"

With a smile, he indicated his uniform. "Why, yes, madame."

"How comes it, then, that you speak French?"

"Because I have always loved your beautiful France, madame."

"France--_ah! la pauvre France_!" She sighed, drew a wisp of what had
been a cornet of snuff from her pocket, opened it, dipped in a
tentative finger and thumb and, finding it empty, gazed at it with
disappointment, sighed again and, with the methodical hopelessness of
age, folded it up into the neatest of little squares and thrust it
back in her pocket. Then she went on with her vegetables.

Doggie took his leave and emerged into the yard.

He dozed pleasantly on the straw of the barn, but it was not the dead
sleep of the night. Bits of his recent little adventure fitted into
the semi-conscious intervals. He heard the girl's voice saying so
gently: "_Pauvre garcon!_" and it was very comforting.

He was finally aroused by Phineas and Mo Shendish, who, having slept
like tired dogs some distance off down the barn, now desired his
company for a stroll round the village. Doggie good-naturedly
assented. As they passed the house door he cast a quick glance. It was
open, but the slim figure in black with the blue apron was not visible
within. The shining cask, however, seemed to smile a friendly
greeting.

"If you believed the London papers," said Phineas, "you'd think that
the war-worn soldier coming from the trenches is met behind the lines
with luxurious Turkish baths, comfortable warm canteens, picture
palaces and theatrical entertainments. Can you perceive here any of
those amenities of modern warfare?"

They looked around them, and admitted they could not.

"Apparently," said Phineas, "the Colonel, good but limited man, has
missed all the proper places and dumps us in localities unrecognized
by the London Press."

"Put me on the pier at Brighton," sang Mo Shendish. "But I'd sooner
have Margit or Yarmouth any day. Brighton's too toffish for whelks.
My! and cockles! I wonder whether we shall ever eat 'em again." A
far-away, dreamy look crept into his eyes.

"Does your young lady like cockles?" Doggie as