at's the orders, Bob?" some one inquired.

"We're going to rest here," he replied.

The news was taken impatiently by several and agreeably by the majority.
They were all travel-stained and worn. Dorn did not comment on the news,
but the fact was that he hated the French villages. They were so old, so
dirty, so obsolete, so different from what he had been accustomed to.
But he loved the pastoral French countryside, so calm and picturesque.
He reflected that soon he would see the devastation wrought by the Huns.

"Any news from the front?" asked Dixon.

"I should smile," replied the corporal, grimly.

"Well, open up, you clam!"

Owens thereupon told swiftly and forcibly what he had heard. More
advance of the Germans--it was familiar news. But somehow it was taken
differently here within sound of the guns. Dorn studied his comrades,
wondering if their sensations were similar to his. He expressed nothing
of what he felt, but all the others had something to say. Hard, cool,
fiery, violent speech that differed as those who uttered it differed,
yet its predominant note rang fight.

"Just heard a funny story," said Owens, presently.

"Spring it," somebody replied.

"This comes from Berlin, so they say. According to rumor, the Kaiser and
the Crown Prince seldom talk to each other. They happened to meet the
other day. And the Crown Prince said: 'Say, pop, what got us into this
war?'

"The Emperor replied, 'My son, I was deluded.'

"'Oh, sire, impossible!' exclaimed the Prince. 'How could it be?'

"'Well, some years ago I was visited by a grinning son-of-a-gun from New
York--no other than the great T.R. I took him around. He was most
interested in my troops. After he had inspected them, and particularly
the Imperial Guard, he slapped me on the back and shouted, "Bill, you
could lick the world!" ... And, my son, I fell for it!'"

This story fetched a roar from every soldier present except Dorn. An
absence of mirth in him had been noted before.

"Dorn, can't you laugh!" protested Dixon.

"Sure I can--when I hear something funny," replied Dorn.

His comrades gazed hopelessly at him.

"My Lawd! boy, thet was shore funny," drawled Brewer with his lazy
Southern manner.

"Kurt, you're not human," said Owens, sadly. "That's why they call you
Demon Dorn."

All the boys in the squad had nicknames. In Dorn's case several had been
applied by irrepressible comrades before one stuck. The first one
received a poor recept