hat an American mule without its negro complement was as galvanic and
unaccountable as a beheaded chicken.

Burley burst into French again, like a shrapnel shell:

"Esker--esker----"

"_Oui_," said the fat brigadier, "there is an excellent inn up the street,
messieurs." And he saluted their uniform, the same being constructed of
cotton khaki, with a horseshoe on the arm and an oxidized metal mule on
the collar. The brigadier wondered at and admired the minute nicety of
administrative detail characterizing a government which clothed even its
muleteers so becomingly, yet with such modesty and dignity.

He could not know that the uniform was unauthorized and the insignia an
invention of Sticky Smith, aiming to counteract any social stigma that
might blight his sojourn in France.

"For," said Sticky Smith, before they went aboard the transport at New
Orleans, "if you dress a man in khaki, with some gimcrack on his sleeve
and collar, you're level with anybody in Europe. Which," he added to
Burley, "will make it pleasant if any emperors or kings drop in on us for
a drink or a quiet game behind the lines."

"Also," added Burley, "it goes with the ladies." And he and Kid Glenn
purchased uniforms similar to Smith's and had the horseshoe and mule
fastened to sleeve and collar.

"They'll hang you fellows for francs-tireurs," remarked a battered soldier
of fortune from the wharf as the transport cast off and glided gradually
away from the sun-blistered docks.

"Hang _who_?" demanded Burley loudly from the rail above.

"What's a frank-tiroor?" inquired Sticky Smith.

"And who'll hang us?" shouted Kid Glenn from the deck of the moving
steamer.

"The Germans will if they catch you in that uniform," retorted the
battered soldier of fortune derisively. "You chorus-boy mule drivers will
wish you wore overalls and one suspender if the Dutch Kaiser nails you!"

CHAPTER XIV

LA PLOO BELLE

They had been nearly three weeks on the voyage, three days in port, four
more on cattle trains, and had been marching since morning from the
nearest railway station at Estville-sur-Lesse.

Now, lugging their large leather hold-alls, they started up the main
street of Sainte Lesse, three sunburnt, loud-talking Americans, young,
sturdy, careless of glance and voice and gesture, perfectly
self-satisfied.

Their footsteps echoed loudly on the pavement of this still, old town,
lying so quietly in the shadow of its aged trees and i