light, the two Americans wondered more and more at the extremely youthful appearance of their companion. When they stopped at a shellhole and washed the mud from their faces, the English boy, with his helmet off and the weather stains removed, showed a countenance of adolescent freshness, almost girlish; cheeks like pink apples, yellow curls above his forehead, long, soft lashes.
“You haven’t been over very long, have you?” Claude asked in a fatherly tone, as they took the road again.
“I came out in ’sixteen. I was formerly in the infantry.”
The Americans liked to hear him talk; he spoke very quickly, in a high, piping voice.
“How did you come to change?”
“Oh, I belonged to one of the Pal Battalions, and we got cut to pieces. When I came out of hospital, I thought I’d try another branch of the service, seeing my pals were gone.”
“Now, just what is a Pal Battalion?” drawled Hicks. He hated all English words he didn’t understand, though he didn’t mind French ones in the least.
“Fellows who signed up together from school,” the lad piped.
Hicks glanced at Claude. They both thought this boy ought to be in school for some time yet, and wondered what he looked like when he first came over.
“And you got cut up, you say?” he asked sympathetically.
“Yes, on the Somme. We had rotten luck. We were sent over to take a trench and couldn’t. We didn’t even get to the wire. The Hun was so well prepared that time, we couldn’t manage it. We went over a thousand, and we came back seventeen.”
“A hundred and seventeen?”
