Next in order comes Emile.  He must be about fourteen, but War has forced manhood on him.  All day long he is at work, bullying very large horses, digging, hoeing, even ploughing.  He is very much a boy, for all that.  He whistles excruciatingly—­usually English music-hall melodies—­grins sheepishly at the officers, and is prepared at any moment to abandon the most important tasks, in order to watch a man cleaning a rifle or oiling a machine-gun.  We seem to have encountered Emile in other countries than this.

After Emile, Gabrielle.  Her age is probably seven.  If you were to give her a wash and brush-up, dress her in a gauzy frock, and exchange her thick woollen stockings and wooden sabots for silk and dancing slippers, she would make a very smart little fairy.  Even in her native state she is a most attractive young person, of an engaging coyness.  If you say:  “Bonjour, Gabrielle!” she whispers:  “B’jour M’sieur le Capitaine”—­or, “M’sieur le Caporal”; for she knows all badges of rank—­and hangs her head demurely.  But presently, if you stand quite still and look the other way, Gabrielle will sidle up to you and squeeze your hand.  This is gratifying, but a little subversive of strict discipline if you happen to be inspecting your platoon at the moment.

Gabrielle is a firm favourite with the rank and file.  Her particular crony is one Private Mackay, an amorphous youth with flaming red hair.  He and Gabrielle engage in lengthy conversations, which appear to be perfectly intelligible to both, though Mackay speaks with the solemn unction of the Aberdonian, and Gabrielle prattles at express speed in a patois of her own.  Last week some unknown humorist, evidently considering that Gabrielle was not making sufficient progress in her knowledge of English, took upon himself to give her a private lesson.  Next morning Mackay, on sentry duty at the farm gate, espied his little friend peeping round a corner.

“Hey, Garibell!” he observed cheerfully. (No Scottish private ever yet mastered a French name quite completely.)

Gabrielle, anxious to exhibit her new accomplishment, drew nearer, smiled seraphically, and replied—­

“’Ello, Gingeair!”

Last of the bunch comes Petit Jean, a chubby and close-cropped youth of about six.  Petit Jean is not his real name, as he himself indignantly explained when so addressed by Major Wagstaffe.

“Moi, z’ne suis pas Petit Jean; z’suis Maurrrice!”

Major Wagstaffe apologised most humbly, but the name stuck.

Petit Jean is an enthusiast upon matters military.  He possesses a little wooden rifle, the gift of a friendly “Ecossais,” tipped with a flashing bayonet cut from a biscuit-tin; and spends most of his time out upon the road, waiting for some one to salute.  At one time he used to stand by the sentry, with an ancient glengarry crammed over his bullet head, and conform meticulously to his comrade’s slightest movement.  This procedure was soon banned, as being calculated to bring contempt and ridicule upon the King’s uniform, and Petit Jean was assigned a beat of his own.  Behold him upon sentry-go.