French slang; then all France prayed godspeed to its beloved piou-
pious. Then you knew the clerk by his pallor; the labourer by his hard
hands; the employer by his manner of command. Now they were
poilus--bearded, hard-eyed veterans; you could not tell the clerk from
the labourer or the employer from the peasant.

Anyone who saw the tenderfoot pilgrimage to the Alaskan goldfield in
'97-8 and the same crowd six months later will understand what had
happened to these men. The puny had put on muscle; the city
dweller had blown his lungs; the fat man had lost some adipose;
social differences of habit had disappeared. The gentleman used to
his bath and linen sheets and the hard-living farmer or labourer--both
had had to eat the same kind of food, do the same work, run the
same risks in battle, and sleep side by side in the houses where they
were lodged and in the dug-outs of the trenches when it was their turn
to occupy them through the winter. Any "snob" had his edges
trimmed by the banter of his comrades. Their beards accentuated the
likeness of type. A cheery lot of faces and intelligent, these, which
greeted us with curious interest.

"Perhaps President Wilson will make peace," one said.

"When?"

A shrug of the shoulder, a gesture to the East, and the answer was:

"When we have Alsace-Lorraine back."

Under a shed their déjeuner was cooking. This meal at noon is the
meal of the day to the average Frenchman who has only bread and