“Certainly.  But we call him ‘Macaroni’ sometimes because he looks like it—­especially his legs,” Joe explained.

“His legs macaroni?” questioned the English officer, regarding the three chums over the tops of his glasses.  “Do you mean—­er—­that his legs are so easily broken—­as macaroni is broken?”

“No, not that.  It’s because they’re so thin,” Joe added.

Still the officer did not seem to comprehend.

“It’s a joke,” added Blake.

Then the Englishman’s face lit up.

“Oh, a joke!” he exclaimed.  “Why didn’t you say so at first?  Now I comprehend.  A joke!  Oh, that’s different!  His legs are like macaroni, so you call him spaghetti!  I see!  Very good!  Very good!” and he laughed in a ponderous way.

“At the same time,” he went on, “I think I shall make a note of it.  I will just jot it down on the margin of his papers, that he is called ‘Macaroni’ as a joke.  Some other officer might not see the point,” he added.  “I’m quite fond of a joke myself!  This is a very good one.  I shall make a note of it.”  And this he proceeded to do in due form.

“Well, if that isn’t the limit!” murmured Joe, when the officer, having returned their papers to them, sent them to another department to get the necessary passes by which they could claim their baggage and make application to go to the front.

“It’s a good thing this officer had a sense of humor,” remarked Blake, half sarcastically, “or we might have had to send back for a special passport for one stick of macaroni.”

If Blake and his chums had an idea they would at once be permitted to depart for “somewhere in France” and begin the work of taking moving pictures of Uncle Sam’s boys in training and in the trenches, they were very soon disillusioned.  It was one thing to land in England during war times, but it was another matter to get out, especially when they were not English subjects.

It is true that Mr. Hadley had made arrangements for the films to be made, and they were to be taken for and under the auspices of the United States War Department.

But England has many institutions, and those connected with war are bound up in much red tape, in which they are not unlike our own, in some respects.

The applications of Blake and his chums to depart for the United States base in France were duly received and attached to the application already made by Mr. Hadley and approved by the American commanding officer.

“And what happens next?” asked Blake, when they had filled out a number of forms in the English War Office.  “I mean, where do we go from here?”

“Ah, that’s one of your songs, isn’t it?” asked an English officer, one who looked as though he could understand a joke better than could the one to whom macaroni so appealed.

“Yes, it’s a song, but we don’t want to stay here too long singing it,” laughed Joe.

“Well, I’ll do my best for you,” promised the officer, who was a young man.  He had been twice wounded at the front and was only awaiting a chance to go back, he said.  “I’ll do my best, but it will take a little time.  We’ll have to send the papers to France and wait for their return.”