“Bong jooer, Mrs. Pankhurst!” he observes breezily to the plump epiciere.  This is his invariable greeting to French ladies who display any tendency to volubility—­and they are many.

“Bon jour, M’sieu le Caporal!” replies the epiciere, smiling.  “M’sieu le Caporal desire?”

The sergeant allows his reduction in rank to pass unnoticed.  He does not understand the French tongue, though he speaks it with great fluency and incredible success.  He holds up a warning hand.

“Now, keep your ’and off the tap of the gas-meter for one minute if you please,” he rejoins, “and let me get a word in edgeways.  I want”—­with great emphasis—­“vinblank one, vinrooge two, bogeys six, Dom one.  Compree?”

By some miracle the smiling lady does “compree,” and produces white wine, red wine, candles, and—­a bottle of Benedictine! (Sergeant Goffin always names wines after the most boldly printed word upon the label.  He once handed round some champagne, which he insisted on calling “a bottle of brute.”)

“Combine?” is the next observation.

The epiciere utters the series of short sharp sibilants of which all French numerals appear to be composed.  It sounds like “song-song-song.”  The resourceful Goffin lays down a twenty-franc note.

“Take it out of that,” he says grandly.

He receives his change, and counts it with a great air of wisdom.  The epiciere breaks into a rapid recital—­it sounds rather like our curate at home getting to work on When the wicked man—­of the beauty and succulence of her other wares.  Up goes Goffin’s hand again.

“Na pooh!” he exclaims..  “Bong jooer!” And he stumps out to the mess-cart.

“Na pooh!” is a mysterious but invaluable expression.  Possibly it is derived from “Il n’y a plus.”  It means, “All over!” You say “Na pooh!” when you push your plate away after dinner.  It also means, “Not likely!” or “Nothing doing!” By a further development it has come to mean “done for,” “finished,” and in extreme cases, “dead.”  “Poor Bill got na-poohed by a rifle-grenade yesterday,” says one mourner to another.

The Oxford Dictionary of the English Language will have to be revised and enlarged when this war is over.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, a few doors away, a host of officers is sitting in the Cafe de la Terre.  Cafes are as plentiful as blackberries in this, as in most other French provincial towns, and they are usually filled to overflowing with privates of the British Army heroically drinking beer upon which they know it is impossible to get intoxicated.  But the proprietor of the Cafe de la Terre is a long-headed citizen.  By the simple expedient of labelling his premises “Officers Only,” and making a minimum charge of one franc per drink, he has at a single stroke ensured the presence of the elite and increased his profits tenfold.