“At first the officers were for sending the lad home, but he was making himself so useful in many little ways, and his patriotism was so deep and true that he finally was permitted to remain.

“What most disturbed Remi was that he had no rifle.  The soldiers laughed at him when he demanded one, so he determined to get one for himself at the first opportunity.

“By this time they were well within sound of the big guns.  The sound reminded him of a distant thunderstorm.  It grew louder as the hours passed and the men neared the front.  All understood what the sound meant.  To Remi that distant roar was the sweetest music he ever had heard.

“The Territorials finally were halted in a shell-torn village for a brief rest.  Men were urgently needed at the front, and Remi’s companions soon entered a communicating trench that began under a house in the village, and started for the firing line, a short distance from the German trenches.  Remi was sternly ordered to remain behind.  This order nearly broke his heart and, when he more fully realized that he had been left behind, he sat down and gave way to, bitter tears.

“A peculiar whistling sound in the air suddenly attracted his attention.  The strange sound grew louder.  He stood up.  Then, with a mighty crash and roar, the earth about him rose up and darkness overwhelmed him.  A German shell had landed fairly in the village street hard by and half buried the child in the wreckage.  Remi, bruised and with clothing torn, dug himself out practically unharmed.  He shook his fist in the direction of the German lines.

“‘The Boches!’ he breathed, clenching both fists.  ’I must have a rifle.  Having none, I am good for nothing.’

“For a few moments he stood observing the stretcher men gathering up those who had been wounded in the explosion.  He did not quail at sight of the maimed forms before him—­he was unafraid, but his childish face drew down into hard lines that made him look years older.  He knew now that he must join his company and fight for France.  After what he had seen nothing should hold him back.  Perhaps once at the front he might find a gun.  Remi tried to enter the communicating trench, but was stopped by a sentry.  He was still undaunted.  It was the odor of cooking that finally led to the solution of his problem.  He followed his nose, as the saying goes, because he was hungry.  He found the cooks at work, as he learned, preparing food to be carried to the men in the front-line trench.  The boy promptly offered his services to help carry in the food.  You see, Remi used his head.

“‘What nursery do you belong to?’ jeered the mess sergeant.

“‘Thirty-first Territorials, Company C,’ answered the lad promptly, his quick reply bringing a laugh in which the mess sergeant joined heartily.

“’All right, take a load of coffee and follow the leader, but if you spill so much as a drop of it you’ll face a firing squad at daybreak.’