“Begins to look like we’re getting in, Lieutenant,” said Sergeant Hicks, smiling behind his salute.

Claude nodded and passed forward.

“Well, we can’t arrive any too soon for us, boys?” The Sergeant looked over his shoulder, and they grinned, their teeth flashing white in their red, perspiring faces.  Claude didn’t wonder that everybody along the route, even the babies, came out to see them; he thought they were the finest sight in the world.  This was the first day they had worn their tin hats; Gerhardt had shown them how to stuff grass and leaves inside to keep their heads cool.  When they fell into fours, and the band struck up as they approached a town, Bert Fuller, the boy from Pleasantville on the Platte, who had blubbered on the voyage over, was guide right, and whenever Claude passed him his face seemed to say, “You won’t get anything on me in a hurry, Lieutenant!”

They made camp early in the afternoon, on a hill covered with half-burned pines.  Claude took Bert and Dell Able and Oscar the Swede, and set off to make a survey and report the terrain.

Behind the hill, under the burned edge of the wood, they found an abandoned farmhouse and what seemed to be a clean well.

It had a solid stone curb about it, and a wooden bucket hanging by a rusty wire.  When the boys splashed the bucket about, the water sent up a pure, cool breath.  But they were wise boys, and knew where dead Prussians most loved to hide.  Even the straw in the stable they regarded with suspicion, and thought it would be just as well not to bed anybody there.

Swinging on to the right to make their circuit, they got into mud; a low field where the drain ditches had been neglected and had overflowed.  There they came upon a pitiful group of humanity, bemired.  A woman, ill and wretched looking, sat on a fallen log at the end of the marsh, a baby in her lap and three children hanging about her.  She was far gone in consumption; one had only to listen to her breathing and to look at her white, perspiring face to feel how weak she was.  Draggled, mud to the knees, she was trying to nurse her baby, half hidden under an old black shawl.  She didn’t look like a tramp woman, but like one who had once been able to take proper care of herself, and she was still young.  The children were tired and discouraged.  One little boy wore a clumsy blue jacket, made from a French army coat.  The other wore a battered American Stetson that came down over his ears.  He carried, in his two arms, a pink celluloid clock.  They all looked up and waited for the soldiers to do something.

Claude approached the woman, and touching the rim of his helmet, began:  “Bonjour, Madame.  Qu’est que c’est?”

She tried to speak, but went off into a spasm of coughing, only able to gasp, “’Toinette, ’Toinette!”

’Toinette stepped quickly forward.  She was about eleven, and seemed to be the captain of the party.  A bold, hard little face with a long chin, straight black hair tied with rags, uneasy, crafty eyes; she looked much less gentle and more experienced than her mother.  She began to explain, and she was very clever at making herself understood.  She was used to talking to foreign soldiers,—­spoke slowly, with emphasis and ingenious gestures.