Kitobni o'qish: «Grace Harlowe with the American Army on the Rhine»

CHAPTER I
ON THE MARCH TO THE RHINE

“HERE is where we take on our load,” observed Grace Harlowe, backing her car up to the door of a peasant cottage.

“Never was a truer word spoken,” agreed J. Elfreda Briggs. “Chad of her own sweet self is considerable of a load.” Miss Briggs reached back and threw open the door of the army automobile, to be ready for their passenger who had not yet appeared. “Baggage, some would characterize her,” added the girl.

“She is our superior, Elfreda,” reminded Grace. “One always must preserve a certain respect for one’s superior, else discipline in the army will quickly go to pieces. While Mrs. Smythe plainly is not all that we wish she were, she is our superior officer whom we must both respect and obey.”

“Ever meet her?” questioned Elfreda.

“Once. I was not favorably impressed with her, though I did not see enough of her to form an opinion worth while. That she was fat and rather fair, I recall quite distinctly.”

“Know anything about her, Grace?”

“Nothing beyond the fact that she is said to be the wife of a wealthy Chicago meat-packer, and that Mrs. Meat Packer wishes every one to know that she is a rich woman and an influential one.”

“She must be to get here, Grace. What I cannot understand is how she ever got into army welfare work, especially how she came to be assigned to join out with this American Third Army’s march to the Rhine.”

“Perhaps influence, perhaps her money; perhaps a little of both,” nodded Grace. “You know as much about it as I do.”

“And that much, little as it is, is too much,” declared J. Elfreda Briggs. “I should characterize her as an inordinately vain woman, one of the newly rich, who, clothed with a little authority, would be a mighty uncomfortable companion. The girls at the hospital who have worked under her say she is a regular martinet. How does it come that she has been unloaded on us?”

“I am sure I do not know, J. Elfreda. I do not even know with whom she came through last night when we started out on our march to the Rhine. I was ordered to pick her up and take her through in our automobile to-day, together with two other women who accompany her. However, this march to the River Rhine having only just begun, we haven’t yet settled down to a routine.”

“Neither has the enemy,” observed Elfreda.

Grace nodded reflectively.

“He has signed the armistice, but knowing the Hun as I do, I know that, if he thinks he can safely do so, he will play a scurvy trick on us. I hardly think we shall be attacked, however, but, J. Elfreda, take my word for it, there are many deep and dark Hun plots being hatched in this victorious army at this very moment,” she declared.

“What do you mean?”

“Hun treachery, Elfreda.”

“You know something, Grace Harlowe?”

“No, not in the way you mean. I know the animal and its ways; that’s all. Look at that line of observation balloons of ours floating in the sky to our rear, and moving forward as we move forward. Know what they are doing?”

“Watching the Boches.”

“Exactly. Were the Boche a worthy foe, a foe who would respect his agreements, the need for watching him would not exist. But a foe who has broken his word, his bond and all the ten commandments is not to be trusted. I suppose I shouldn’t feel that way, but I have lived at the front for many months, Elfreda, and what I have seen has chilled my very soul. It behooves us Sammies to watch our steps and keep our hands on our guns,” she added after an interval of reflection. “I think our passenger is approaching.”

Mrs. Chadsey Smythe, clad in a suit of tight-fitting khaki, which accentuated her stoutness, was walking stiffly down the path from the cottage, followed by two welfare workers, discreetly keeping to the rear of their superior. The face of the meat-packer’s wife wore an expression of austerity which Grace told herself had been borrowed from some high army officer, an officer with a grouch of several years’ standing. Mrs. Smythe halted, eyeing first the car itself, then the two young women on the front seat, both of whom were gazing stolidly ahead.

“Are you the chauffeur?” she demanded, addressing Grace.

“I am Mrs. Grace Gray, Madame. I am driving this car through,” replied Grace courteously.

“A car, did you say? No, this is not a car, it is a truck, and a very dirty truck. I venture to say that it has not been washed in some time,” observed the welfare supervisor sarcastically.

“Quite probable, Mrs. Smythe. This is wartime, you know.”

“That is not an excuse. The war is ended. Hereafter you will see that the car is clean when you start out in the morning.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Another thing, driver, I do not brook impertinence from my subordinates. No matter how slack this department may have been carried on in the past, henceforth military form must be observed.”

“Yes, Madame,” replied Grace meekly.

“If proper for a superior to do so, I would ask if it is customary for a private to remain seated when such superior approaches to speak to the private?”

“When driving, yes.”

“It is not! Hereafter, driver, when a superior officer comes up to you, you will step down, hold the car door open and stand at salute, if you know how to salute, until the officer is seated. Am I clear?”

“Perfectly so, Madame.” Grace repressed a hot retort, and Elfreda’s face burned with indignation. She found herself wondering how her companion could keep her self-control under the insulting tone of the welfare supervisor.

“It is quite apparent, driver, that you are new to the army and its ways.”

“Oh!” exclaimed J. Elfreda.

“What is that?” demanded Mrs. Smythe.

“I – I think I pinched my finger in the door,” stammered Elfreda.

“Driver, step down. There is nothing like making a right start.”

Without an instant’s hesitation, Grace sprang out, grasped the door of the car, and, standing very erect, held it until Mrs. Smythe and her two “aides” had entered and taken their seats. Grace Harlowe closed the door, clicked her heels together and gave her superior a snappy salute that even a freshly made second lieutenant could not have improved upon.

“Oh, you can at least salute, I see,” observed the passenger. “I sincerely hope, however, that you are a better driver than you are a soldier. I wish a fast driver, but not a careless one. If you are afraid to drive fast I will request the colonel to give me a driver who is not.”

“Yes, Madame.”

There was mischief in the eyes of Grace Harlowe as she climbed into the driver’s seat, an expression that J. Elfreda understood full well was a sure forecast of trouble to come.

The road was greatly congested, and for a time the driver worked her way cautiously along at a rate of speed of not more than ten miles an hour.

“Faster! Are you too timid to drive?” cried the passenger.

At this juncture an opening presented itself, a narrow space between two army trucks, and an officer’s car tearing along behind her at a terrific pace was reaching for the opening. Grace opened up and hurled her car at the opening as if it were a projectile on its way to the enemy lines. The two cars touched hubs. Grace fed a little more gas and went into the opening a winner.

“Stop it!” shouted Mrs. Chadsey Smythe.

Ahead there were open spots and Grace made for them, dodging, swerving, the car careening, the horn sounding until the drivers ahead, thinking a staff officer was coming, made all the room they could for the charging army automobile. Madame was expostulating, threatening, jouncing about until speech became an unintelligible stutter. Reaching a clear stretch of road, by clever manipulation Grace sent the car into a series of skids that would have excited the envy of a fighting aviator. That it did not turn over was because there was no obstruction in the road to catch the tires and send the car hurtling into the ditch.

“For the love of Heaven, stop it, Grace Harlowe!” gasped Miss Briggs. “I’m on the verge of nervous prostration. You’ll have us all in the hospital or worse.”

Grace grinned but made no reply. She straightened up a little as the officer’s car finally shot past her, and it was then that she saw she had been racing with a general, though she did not know who the general might be. She hoped he did not know who it was that had cut him off, but of course he could not expect her to look behind her when driving in that tangle of traffic. That was good logic, so she devoted her attention and thought wholly to the work in hand, and, putting on more speed, rapidly drew up on the charging automobile ahead, reasoning that the general would have a fairly clear road, which road would be hers provided she were able to keep up with him.

Ahead of them a short distance she espied a concrete bridge. There was a concrete barrier on either side of the bridge, but the bridge was amply wide to permit two vehicles to pass. The general’s car took the bridge at high speed, army trucks drawing to their right so as to leave him plenty of room. Grace followed, driving at the bridge at top speed, but when within a few yards of the structure a truck driver swayed over past the center of the span, evidently not having heard her horn.

The girl thought she could still go through, but discovered too late that the truck was too far over to permit her passing. The emergency brakes went on and the horn shrieked, but too late. The truck driver, losing his head, swung further to the left instead of to the right as he should have done, thus crowding Grace further over toward the concrete wall-railing.

“Hold fast!” shouted Grace.

Ere the passengers could “hold fast” the car met the end of the concrete railing head-on with a mighty crash, the rear of the car shot up into the air and the passengers were hurled over the dash. They cleared the obstruction and went hurtling into the river, disappearing beneath its surface. The car lurched sideways until half its length hung over, threatening any moment to slip down after them into the stream. Harlowe luck had not improved. This time Grace had overreached the mark.

Those readers who have followed Grace through the eventful years from her exciting days in the Oakdale High School have learned to love her for her gentle qualities and to admire her for her pluck and achievements, for the sterling qualities that from her early school days drew to her so many loyal friends.

It was in “Grace Harlowe’s Plebe Year at High School” that the readers of this series first became acquainted with her. They followed her through her high school course as told in “Grace Harlowe’s Sophomore Year at High School,” “Grace Harlowe’s Junior Year at High School” and “Grace Harlowe’s Senior Year at High School,” in which those dear friends of her girlhood days, Nora O’Malley, Anne Pierson and Jessica Bright – the Original Four – shared her joys and her sorrows.

After high school came college, Grace and Anne going to Overton, Nora and Jessica choosing for their further education an eastern conservatory of music. At Overton new friends rallied to Grace’s colors, such as Elfreda Briggs, Arline Thayer, Emma Dean, Mabel Ashe and many others. Four eventful years were spent at old Overton, the experiences of those college years being related in “Grace Harlowe’s First Year at Overton College,” “Grace Harlowe’s Second Year at Overton College,” “Grace Harlowe’s Third Year at Overton College” and “Grace Harlowe’s Fourth Year at Overton College,” followed by “Grace Harlowe’s Return to Overton Campus” and “Grace Harlowe’s Problem.”

The story of the fruition of the Overton girl’s dreams is told in “Grace Harlowe’s Golden Summer,” when she became the bride of her lifelong friend and chum, Tom Gray, and went to “Haven Home” a happy wife. Grace’s home life was a brief one, for the great world war enveloped the big white “House Behind the World,” as she had so happily characterized it. First Tom Gray went away to serve his country in its hour of need, then Grace followed him as a member of the Overton unit, and in “Grace Harlowe Overseas” is related the story of how she became involved in the plots of the Old World nearly to her own undoing. In “Grace Harlowe with the Red Cross in France” she is assigned to drive an ambulance at the front, which she had long yearned to do, and out there in the thick of the fighting she is called upon to face death in many forms. It is, however, in a following volume, “Grace Harlowe with the Marines at Chateau Thierry,” however, that the Overton girl meets with hardships and perils that nearly cost her her life. Yet more thrilling even than this were her experiences as related in “Grace Harlowe with the U. S. Army in the Argonne,” where perhaps the most desperate fighting of the war occurred.

“Grace Harlowe with the Yankee Shock Boys at St. Quentin” finds Grace an active participant in that most brilliant single achievement of the war, the breaking of the Hindenburg Line, in which, by sheer pluck and daring, she saves an entire regiment from certain annihilation and wins a decoration for her heroism.

Following the signing of the armistice the march of the American troops toward the Rhine began. With them went Grace Harlowe and her faithful friend, J. Elfreda Briggs, Anne Nesbit having been left behind to continue her work in a hospital.

Just how it had come about that Grace and Elfreda were to accompany the troops neither girl knew. The assignment brought joy to both girls, and especially to Grace, for when the sound of the big guns died away and an unnatural stillness settled over war-torn Europe she felt ill at ease, felt as if there were something lacking, though down deep in her heart was a thankfulness that overbalanced the regret that the excitement of months in the war zone was a thing of the past. She was first thankful for the soldiers, then for her husband, Tom Gray, who also was on his way to the Rhine, and for the little Yvonne, now their daughter, the child whom Grace had picked up as a waif in a deserted French village under fire.

Grace, at her own request, was permitted to drive through with her friend, in an army car. The first day she carried, besides herself, supplies for canteen work, for both she and Elfreda Briggs were now welfare workers. It had been understood that Mrs. Smythe was to go with the invading army, but that she would take an active part in directing the work neither girl considered probable, for, as a rule, such workers left the actual directing to some person of experience. Not so with Mrs. Chadsey Smythe. She proposed to be a working head, and she was. At least she had been an active participant on the march to the Rhine since she came up with Grace Harlowe. Her real troubles began with the starting of the car with Grace at the wheel, and the troubles continued without a second’s intermission right up to and including that fatal second when Grace collided with the bridge rail and Mrs. “Chadsey,” together with the other occupants of the car, took an unexpected dive into the river.

Fortunately for the five women in the car, the machine had remained on the road, else it might have fallen on them and finished them entirely.

Grace came up to the surface first, shook the water from her eyes, and then dived and brought up one of the welfare workers who had accompanied Mrs. “Chadsey.” The other woman and Elfreda came up of their own accord and Grace quickly went in search of Mrs. “Chadsey.”

“There she is,” gasped Elfreda, pointing downstream, where the welfare supervisor was seen floundering, fighting desperately to get to shore, not realizing that the water at that point was shallow enough to permit her to stand up and keep her chin above water.

Grace swam to her quickly and grasped the supervisor by the hair of her head just as Mrs. “Chadsey,” giving up, had gone under. Even though the water there was only about five feet deep, Grace had never come nearer to drowning, for not only did Mrs. “Chadsey” grip her with both arms, but fought desperately, when Grace got her head above water.

“Stop it!” gasped Grace, struggling to free herself from the grip of those really strong arms. “You’ll drown us both.”

“Let me go!” screamed the supervisor, fastening a hand in the Overton girl’s hair.

One of Grace’s hands being thus freed she took a firm grip in the hair of her opponent, pushed her head under the water and both sank out of sight.

CHAPTER II
“GRACE HARLOWE, TROUBLE-MAKER”

WHEN Mrs. Smythe and Grace came to the surface, the fight had been all taken out of the supervisor. She was limp, choking and gasping, but not in a serious condition, as the Overton girl observed, though the water was chill and serious consequences might follow the wetting, there being no way to secure dry clothing until they arrived at the end of the day’s march, a few miles further on.

“You will be all right now,” comforted Grace. “Don’t fight. Give me half a chance to get you ashore. I’m sorry, Mrs. Smythe. The water is not over our heads, so please try to walk in.”

The woman screamed and choked some more, so Grace grasped her by the collar of her blouse and began swimming toward shore with her. They had not gone more than half of the way, when doughboys who had witnessed the accident plunged into the river and went to the rescue. Grace turned over her burden to them quite willingly, but waved the soldiers aside when they offered to assist her. The men had their hands full in getting the supervisor ashore, where they laid her down on the bank and shook her until she was able to sit up.

“Please wring the water out of me, Grace,” begged the disheveled J. Elfreda Briggs, who was shivering.

“That will not help any. Keep moving, is my advice. Were you hurt, Elfreda?”

“My feelings were very much hurt. Grace Harlowe, you are the original trouble-maker. I blame myself wholly in this matter, not you at all, for I should have known better than to remain in that car for an instant after I saw that look in your eyes. It was a perfectly safe intimation that something terrible was about to occur.”

“There’s the lieutenant talking with Mrs. Smythe. I must see what she has to say.”

“Probably recommending you for the Congressional Medal,” observed Miss Briggs sourly.

Mrs. Smythe was sitting on the bank wringing the water out of her blouse when Grace came up, the lieutenant standing by and apparently not knowing what he should do in the circumstances. The supervisor’s hair was down over her shoulders and she was half crying, half raging. Grace was filled with regret.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smythe,” she said, bending over the supervisor. “May I assist you to your feet? You must not sit here, you know. The ground is cold and you are very wet.”

Mrs. Chadsey Smythe blinked at the Overton girl and struggled for words. The words finally came, a torrent of them.

“She did it!” screamed the woman. “She did it on purpose! She set out to mur – ”

“Mrs. Smythe, you know better than that,” rebuked Grace.

“Arrest that woman!” commanded Mrs. Smythe.

“Well, I – I don’t know about that. Do you wish to make a charge against her, Madame?”

“Of course. She threw me into the river.”

“But,” protested the officer, “she did no more to you than she did to herself and the others in the car. Of course you may make a complaint to the captain, or to your superior whoever he or she may be, but I do not think this woman can be arrested, because the wreck plainly was an accident.”

“It was not! I tell you she did it on purpose!”

The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders.

“I will inform my superior, Captain Rowland,” answered the lieutenant gravely. “You are – ”

“Mrs. Chadsey Smythe, in command of the welfare workers.”

The officer turned to Grace inquiringly.

“Mrs. Grace Gray, former ambulance driver on the western front, now a welfare worker on the march to the Rhine, sir,” answered Grace meekly, out of the corners of her eyes observing that the lieutenant was passing a hand over his face, to hide the grin that had appeared there.

“Anything to say, Mrs. Gray?”

“I think not, sir, except that we should be moving.”

“Yes, get me a car at once, if you will be so good,” urged Mrs. Smythe.

“If I may offer a suggestion, sir, I do not think it would be prudent for either Mrs. Smythe or the others to ride in. We would all be chilled through and on the verge of pneumonia. My advice, if I may offer it, would be that we walk.”

“Walk? Never!” exclaimed the supervisor. “I demand a car. It is my right to make such a demand.”

“I fear I cannot give you a car. The best I can possibly do is to put you on a truck, but I agree with Mrs. Gray that it would be much wiser for you to walk, all of you.”

“A truck!” moaned the woman. “I’ll walk, thank you. It is much more dignified than being jounced about on an army truck. No army truck for me, thank you.”

“Very good. I will see to it that the belongings of the party are sent in so that you may have change of clothing as soon as we reach the end of the day’s march.”

“Do I understand that you will do nothing to this woman?” demanded Mrs. Smythe.

“I will report the matter to Captain Rowland. May I assist you up the bank?” he offered politely.

Mrs. Smythe accepted with all the grace she could assume. Grace’s face wore a serious expression as she looked at the car hanging over the edge of the bridge.

“I could do no worse myself,” observed Miss Briggs to her companion.

“I doubt if I could equal that achievement,” agreed Grace. “That woman is going to make trouble for me, and I am inclined to think that I deserve all that she will try to give me. You know it was an accident, Elfreda?”

“An accident? It was that! Why, the train wreck on our way to Paris with the wounded doughboys was no more of an accident than this. What you mean to say is that you did not do it on purpose. Personally, Elfreda Briggs has her own views on that phase of the matter.”

“Elfreda!” rebuked Grace.

“However, it is some satisfaction to see our beloved superior taking the same medicine that we are taking; walking for our health, as it were.”

Mrs. Smythe was making heavy weather of it, and Grace, filled with compassion, stepped up to her and linked an arm within that of the supervisor.

“Please permit me to assist you along,” she urged gently.

Mrs. Smythe threw off Grace’s arm angrily.

“Be good enough to keep your hands off. I wish nothing whatever to do with you.”

“Mrs. Smythe, please do not speak to me in that tone. I feel much worse about it than you possibly can, and I blame myself, even if that truck driver did crowd me into the railing. Won’t you please forgive me?”

“You will learn later what I propose to do to you, driver. Do not forget that you are speaking to your superior officer and not to your equal.”

“I had suspected something of the sort myself,” answered the Overton girl, drawing herself up and moving on ahead at a rapid stride.

“Chad spoke the truth for once,” chuckled Miss Briggs. “I wonder if she realizes what she said? That is too good to keep. I shall have to tell the girls about that. Do you really think she will do something to you?”

“I would not be at all surprised.”

“In that event remember that I am a lawyer, and that I invite myself to defend you,” declared Elfreda eloquently. “This going is the toughest experience I have ever had.”

Two hours before dark they reached their destination, which proved to be the little city of Etain, a deserted city, not a living thing being in sight there when the advance guard reached the place. The city was pretty well pounded to pieces. For a long time before the armistice was signed those of the inhabitants who had clung to their homes lived in holes in the ground. It was a cheerless place, and the cellar where the welfare workers were berthed was more than dismal.

The belongings of Grace and her party were brought in by a Chinaman, who grinned as he put the first bundle down, and was rewarded by a smile from Grace. He did not speak when he entered the first time, but upon the second trip he straightened up and saluted, which Grace returned snappily.

“Missie plenty fine dliver, a-la,” observed the Chinaman.

“Not very, I fear. You mean my running into the bridge?”

“Les.”

“What is your name?”

“Won Lue.”

“Belong to the labor battalion?”

“Les. Plenty blad men b’long labor blattalion,” observed Won.

“So I have heard, but surely you are not a bad man, Won?”

He shook his head with emphasis.

“Me good Chinaman, a-la.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

“Well, I never,” declared Elfreda Briggs. “One would think you and Won were very old friends. Better look out for those oily Orientals. They are not to be trusted.”

“So I have been told,” replied Grace absently. “I wonder where Mrs. Smythe has taken herself. Ah, here comes one of her aides.”

The young woman said she had come for the supervisor’s bags, having been directed there by the officer who had come to their assistance on the river bank.

“I trust Mrs. Smythe is feeling better,” said Grace with a voice full of sympathy. “You are Miss Cahill, I believe?”

“Yes. Madame is in high temper because they have put her in a cellar. The lieutenant told her she was in luck that she didn’t have to wrap herself up in a blanket and sleep on the ground, which did not serve to improve her temper. I wish we might stay here with you two ladies.”

“Why not come with us, then?” urged Grace.

“The supervisor wouldn’t let me. However, I am going to request that we be relieved some way.”

“Better go through with it until we get to the Rhine,” advised Grace. “Something may develop that will make a change possible. If I can assist you to that end you may depend upon me to do so.”

“Thank you. May – may I tell you something, Mrs. Gray?”

Grace nodded smilingly.

“Mrs. Smythe, I fear, is going to make you a lot of trouble. She is making all sorts of threats of what she is going to do and – ”

“If she doesn’t succeed any better than she has thus far, there won’t be much left of her,” interjected Miss Briggs. “How long have you been with her?”

“Only since we started for the Rhine. We were directed from headquarters to join out with the outfit to act as her assistants, Miss O’Leary and myself, but we have had about enough of it already. She is making servants of us and – ”

“In wartime we must do many things that we don’t care to do,” suggested Grace. “We are still at war with the Huns, so we must take whatever comes to us, doing our best to keep our heads level.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gray. You make me feel better. I shall do my best not to lose my temper, but really I do not see how such a woman could be chosen for our important work. I call it a rank injustice.”

“That’s what the doughboys say about their treatment,” smiled Grace. “C’est la guerre (it is war). Come in to see us whenever you can. So few of us women are out here that we should do what we can to make it pleasant for one another.”

Miss Cahill thanked her and went out, after which the two Overton girls changed their wrinkled uniforms, put on dry underwear and sat down each before a steel trench mirror to do her hair. This proceeding occupied all their time up to the mess hour, when they went out with their kits to draw their evening meal. Doughboys made way for them and insisted on their taking a place at the front of the line, but Grace smilingly declined to do anything of the sort.

Most of the men in that division had seen the welfare women and knew by that time who they were, for a woman at the front was too rare a sight not to attract attention. Then, too, there were among them men who either knew of their own knowledge what Grace Harlowe had accomplished or had heard the story from others. Her smash on the bridge was already known to several regiments, and when the two girls appeared, looking as fresh and well-groomed as if they had been serving in Paris rather than out at the front, the doughboys wondered and admired.

Grace and Elfreda, having drawn their rations, returned to their cellar, where, to their surprise, they found a bundle of fagots, which some considerate person had left for them.

“Isn’t that fine? I wonder who gave the wood to us?” cried Grace. “Now we can brew some tea. Get the tea ready while I start the fire. Well, I do declare, here is a can of water, and in a petrol can too. J. Elfreda, have you an admirer? Have you been deceiving me?”

“If I have he isn’t a Chinaman,” retorted Miss Briggs.

“Thank you.”

The cellar was soon filled with smoke, but neither girl cared so long as tea was to be the result. After finishing the meal they began considering where they were going to sleep. There were two cots in the cellar, cots without springs, rough boards having been nailed on, but no mattress.

“Not very inviting, but I for one shall be able to sleep soundly, I know,” declared Grace. “When we get to the Rhine we probably shall be billeted in a house where we can have ordinary comforts. I know I shall have difficulty in accustoming myself to civilized life again, won’t you, J. Elfreda?”

“Not so that you could notice it,” was Miss Briggs’ brief reply. “I – ”

“Hulloa the cellar!” shouted a voice from above.

“Enter,” answered Grace.

A sergeant of infantry crunched in, coughed as he inhaled the smoke, and, snapping to attention, saluted, which both girls returned.

“What is it, Sergeant?” asked Grace.

“Captain Rowland wishes you to report at his headquarters at half past seven o’clock, Madame.”

“Very good, Sergeant. Where are the captain’s headquarters?”

“Four dumps down the street from here, to the right as you go out, down one flight to the cellar.”

“Thank you. Will you have a nip of tea? We still have some left.”

The sergeant accepted a tin-cup of tea, gulped it down, thanked them, and saluting tramped out.

“Queer fellows those doughboys,” murmured Grace. “All gold, but odd josies every one of them.”

“Is that what you are thinking of? Were I in your place I should be thinking of what I am going to say to Captain Rowland this evening. This is the summons I have been waiting for. You understand what this means, do you not, Grace?”

“I presume so. However, I will cross that bridge when I come to it.”