the beginning of the end of Kaiserism, if I'm any judge."

"Oh, it isn't going to be so easy as all that," returned Jack.
"We'll see some hard fighting. Germany isn't licked yet by any
means; but those, are the boys that can bring the thing to a
finish," and he pointed to a company of the lean, stem, brown
figures that were swinging along with characteristic stride.

The place at which Tom and Jack had been ordered to report was an
interior city of France, not far from the port at which the first
transport from America had arrived. A first glance at the scenes on
every hand would have given a person not familiar with war a belief
that hopeless confusion existed. Wagons, carts, mule teams and
motor trucks-"lorries," the English call them--were dashing to and
fro. Men were marching, countermarching, unloading some vehicles,
loading others. Soldiers were being marched into the interior to be
billeted, others were being directed to their respective French or
English units. Officers were shouting commands, and privates were
carrying them out to the best of their ability.

But though it all seemed chaos, out of it order was coming. There
was a system, though a civilian would not have understood it.

"Well, let's find out where we're at," suggested Torn, to his chum.

"Right 0, my pickled grapefruit!" agreed Jack with a laugh. "Let's
get into the game."

They were about to ask their direction from a non-commissioned
officer who was directing a squad of men in the unloading of a truck