the term cabbage. It was one of the many little tricks picked up by
association with their French flying comrades, of speaking to a
friend by some odd, endearing term. It might be cucumber or rose,
cabbage or cart wheel--the words mattered not, it was the meaning
back of them.

"Say, is anything the matter?" went on Tom, as his chum, attired
like himself', but wearing an old blouse covered with oil and
grease, continued to smile. "What gave you the notion that my head
hurt?"

"I didn't say it hurt. I only asked how it was. The swelling
hasn't begun to subside in mine yet, and I was wondering if it had
in yours."

"Swelling? Subside? What in the world--"

Jack Parmly brought to a sudden termination the rapid torrent of
words from the mouth of his churn by silently pointing to a small
medal fastened to the uniform jacket of his friend. It was the
coveted croix de guerre.

"Oh, that!" exclaimed Tom.

"Nothing else, my pickled beet!" answered Jack. "Doesn't it make
your head swell up as if it would burst every time you look at it?
Now don't say it doesn't, for that's the way it affects me, and I'm
sure you're not very different. And every time I read the citation
that goes with the medal--well, I'm just aching for a chance to show
it to the folks back home, aren't you, Sergeant?"