Perhaps it might have been chance, or it might have been true of all the American squads, but the fact was that Dorn’s squad was a strangely assorted set of young men.  Perhaps that might have been Dorn’s conviction from coming to live long with them.  They were a part of the New York Division of the —­th, all supposed to be New York men.  As a matter of fact, this was not true.  Dorn was a native of Washington.  Sanborn was a thick-set, sturdy fellow with the clear brown tan and clear brown eyes of the Californian.  Brewer was from South Carolina, a lean, lanky Southerner, with deep-set dark eyes.  Dixon hailed from Massachusetts, from a fighting family, and from Harvard, where he had been a noted athlete.  He was a big, lithe, handsome boy, red-faced and curly-haired.  Purcell was a New-Yorker, of rich family, highly connected, and his easy, clean, fine ways, with the elegance of his person, his blond distinction, made him stand out from his khaki-clad comrades, though he was clad identically with them.  Rogers claimed the Bronx to be his home and he was proud of it.  He was little, almost undersized, but a knot of muscle, a keen-faced youth with Irish blood in him.  These particular soldiers of the squad were closest to Dorn.

Corporal Bob Owens came swinging in to throw his sombrero down.

“What’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!’”