Then four other men in uniform came in, and it turned out that three of them were privates like himself, and the other a sergeant.  Their awkward entrance made him feel more than ever at ease, and ten minutes later they were all talking like mad, and laughing and joking as if they had known these people for years.  They all went in to dinner.  Buzz got panicky when he thought of the knives and forks, but that turned out all right, too, because they brought these as you needed them.  And besides, the things they gave you to eat weren’t much different from the things you had for Sunday or Thanksgiving dinner at home, and it was cooked the way his mother would have cooked it—­even better, perhaps.  And lots of it.  And paper snappers and caps and things, and much laughter and talk.  And Buzz Werner, who had never been shown any respect or deference in his life, was asked, politely, his opinion of the war, and the army, and when he thought it all would end; and he told them, politely, too.

After dinner Mrs. Ladd said, “What would you boys like to do?  Would you like to drive around the city and see New York?  Or would you like to go to a matinee, or a picture show?  Or do you want to stay here?  Some of Joyce’s girl friends are coming in a little later.”

And Buzz found himself saying, stumblingly, “I—­I’d kind of rather stay and talk with the girls.”  Buzz, the tough guy, blushing like a shy schoolboy.

They did not even laugh at that.  They just looked as if they understood that you missed girls at camp.  Mrs. Ladd came over to him and put her hand on his arm and said, “That’s splendid.  We’ll all go up to the ballroom and dance.”  And they did.  And Buzz, who had learned to dance at places like Kearney’s saloon, and at the mill shindigs, glided expertly about with Joyce Ladd of Madison Avenue, and found himself seated in a great cushioned window-seat, talking with her about Kipling.  It was like talking to another fellow, almost, only it had a thrill in it.  She said such comic things.  And when she laughed she threw back her head and your eyes were dazzled by her slender white throat.  They all stayed for supper.  And when they left Mrs. Ladd and Joyce handed them packages that, later, turned out to be cigarettes, and chocolate, and books, and soap, and knitted things and a wallet.  And when Buzz opened the wallet and found, with relief, that there was no money in it he knew that he had met and mingled with American royalty as its equal.

Three days later he sailed for France.

Buzz Werner, the Chippewa tough guy, in Paris!  Buzz Werner at Napoleon’s tomb, that glorious white marble poem.  Buzz Werner in the Place de la Concorde.  Eating at funny little Paris restaurants.

Then a new life.  Life in a drab, rain-soaked, mud-choked little French village, sleeping in barns, or stables, or hen coops.  If the French were “a gay people, fond of dancing and light wines,” he’d like to know where it came in!  Nothing but drill and mud, mud and drill, and rain, rain, rain!  And old women with tragic faces, and young women with old eyes.  And unbelievable stories of courage and sacrifice.  And more rain, and more mud, and more drill.  And then—­into it!