the tradition had a firm foundation in my own predisposition for
uncouthness plus what _Le Matin_ (if we remember correctly) cleverly
nicknamed _La Boue Heroique_.

Having accomplished the _nettoyage_ (at which we were by this time
adepts, thanks to Mr. A.'s habit of detailing us to wash any car which
its driver and _aide_ might consider too dirty a task for their own
hands) we proceeded in search of a little water for personal use. B.
speedily finished his ablutions. I was strolling carelessly and solo from
the cook-wagon toward one of the two tents--which protestingly housed
some forty huddling Americans by night--holding in my hand an historic
_morceau de chocolat_, when a spick, not to say span, gentleman in a
suspiciously quiet French uniform allowed himself to be driven up to the
_bureau_, by two neat soldiers with tin derbies, in a Renault whose
painful cleanliness shamed my recent efforts. This must be a general at
least, I thought, regretting the extremely undress character of my
uniform, which uniform consisted of overalls and a cigarette.

Having furtively watched the gentleman alight and receive a ceremonious
welcome from the chief and the aforesaid French lieutenant who
accompanied the section for translatory reasons, I hastily betook myself
to one of the tents, where I found B. engaged in dragging all his
belongings into a central pile of frightening proportions. He was
surrounded by a group of fellow-heroes who hailed my coming with
considerable enthusiasm. "Your bunky's leaving" said somebody. "Going to
Paris" volunteered a man who had been trying for three months to get
there. "Prison you mean" remarked a confirmed optimist whost disposition
had felt the effects of French climate.

Albeit confused by the eloquence of B.'s unalterable silence, I