The old man pressed a cigar upon him and began to question him.  Like the hero of the Odyssey upon his homeward journey, Claude had often to tell what his country was, and who were the parents that begot him.  He was constantly interrupted in his perusal of a French phrase-book (made up of sentences chosen for their usefulness to soldiers,—­such as; “Non, jamais je ne regarde les femmes”) by the questions of curious strangers.  Presently he gathered up his luggage, shook hands with his neighbour, and put on his hat—­the same old Stetson, with a gold cord and two hard tassels added to its conical severity.  “I get off at this station and wait for the freight that goes down to Frankfort; the cotton-tail, we call it.”

The old man wished him a pleasant visit home, and the best of luck in days to come.  Every one in the car smiled at him as he stepped down to the platform with his suitcase in one hand and his canvas bag in the other.  His old friend, Mrs. Voigt, the German woman, stood out in front of her restaurant, ringing her bell to announce that dinner was ready for travellers.  A crowd of young boys stood about her on the sidewalk, laughing and shouting in disagreeable, jeering tones.  As Claude approached, one of them snatched the bell from her hand, ran off across the tracks with it, and plunged into a cornfield.  The other boys followed, and one of them shouted, “Don’t go in there to eat, soldier.  She’s a German spy, and she’ll put ground glass in your dinner!”

Claude swept into the lunch room and threw his bags on the floor.  “What’s the matter, Mrs. Voigt?  Can I do anything for you?”

She was sitting on one of her own stools, crying piteously, her false frizzes awry.  Looking up, she gave a little screech of recognition.  “Oh, I tank Gott it was you, and no more trouble coming!  You know I ain’t no spy nor nodding, like what dem boys say.  Dem young fellers is dreadful rough mit me.  I sell dem candy since dey was babies, an’ now dey turn on me like dis.  Hindenburg, dey calls me, and Kaiser Bill!” She began to cry again, twisting her stumpy little fingers as if she would tear them off.

“Give me some dinner, ma’am, and then I’ll go and settle with that gang.  I’ve been away for a long time, and it seemed like getting home when I got off the train and saw your squaw vines running over the porch like they used to.”

“Ya?  You remember dat?” she wiped her eyes.  “I got a pot-pie today, and green peas, chust a few, out of my own garden.”

“Bring them along, please.  We don’t get anything but canned stuff in camp.”

Some railroad men came in for lunch.  Mrs. Voigt beckoned Claude off to the end of the counter, where, after she had served her customers, she sat down and talked to him, in whispers.

“My, you look good in dem clothes,” she said patting his sleeve.  “I can remember some wars, too; when we got back dem provinces what Napoleon took away from us, Alsace and Lorraine.  Dem boys is passed de word to come and put tar on me some night, and I am skeered to go in my bet.  I chust wrap in a quilt and sit in my old chair.”