ain, we travelled steadily all day without incident
and reached our little home town near the Belgian border by five
o'clock to find that all was well.

CHAPTER XIV.

TABLE TALK AT A FLANDERS MESS.

"Look out," warned the Colonel as they stumbled along the Rue de la
Gare, "there's a hole somewhere about here." The Canadian officers
passed gingerly on feeling their way down the inky street. A Zeppelin
had been over the night before and the lighting regulations were being
strictly enforced.

Suddenly the Captain stopped, passed his hand along a brick wall, gave
a pull at a wire, and a gong on the inside rang like a fire alarm.

"How in the dickens you can see in this darkness beats me," said the
Colonel. "You must have eyes like a French cat."

The door was opened by Bittleson, and the three officers entered and
walked along the dimly lit, tiled hall into a room at the far end.

"Home, Sweet Home," said the Colonel looking around the room. "It is
the nearest thing we can get to it anyway, worse luck." They all threw
their British warms and caps onto a large chair, flung their sam-brown
belts on top of them and picking out their own respective easy chairs
drew up before the fire, which was burning brightly in the French
grate stove in the corner of the mess room, formerly the dining room
of Madame Deswaerts. The whole side of the room facing the rose garden
and pigeon cots was glassed in and the two huge French windows were,
no doubt, a pleasant feature in the summer time; at present they
admitted a great deal of the cold, damp air from outside.

"Rawson," called the Colonel. Rawson a little black-haired Jew, the
Doctor's batman and temporary mess cook, entered.

"Yessir," said Rawson.

"Put some more coal on that fire; it's as cold as hell in here,"
grumbled the Colonel.

The fire was duly replenished while the Colonel took a cigarette from
his case and opened his "Bystander."

"Do you know how to cook that canned asparagus?" asked the Colonel as
Rawson turned to leave the room.

"No Sir," said Rawson.

"Well how do you think you would cook it?" asked the Colonel.

This was a poser; Rawson was evidently nonplussed.

"Would you boil it, Sir?" he ventured when the silence had become
oppressive.

"You guessed right," and the Colonel deftly flicked a burned match up
behind a picture of the local cure. "What would you do with the tough
part of the stalks?"

"I dunno, Sir." Rawson was stumped aga