down at the unpainted
table without a cloth, and drank it out of big crockery bowls.
They had fresh milk with it,--the first Claude had tasted in a
long while, and sugar which Gerhardt produced from his pocket.
The old cook had her coffee sitting in the kitchen door, and on
the step, at her feet, sat the strange, pale little girl.

Madame Joubert amiably addressed herself to Claude; she knew that
Americans were accustomed to a different sort of morning repast,
and if he wished to bring bacon from the camp, she would gladly
cook it for him. She had even made pancakes for officers who
stayed there before. She seemed pleased, however, to learn that
Claude had had enough of these things for awhile. She called
David by his first name, pronouncing it the French way, and when
Claude said he hoped she would do as much for him, she said, Oh,
yes, that his was a very good French name, "mais un peu, un peu...
romanesque," at which he blushed, not quite knowing whether
she were making fun of him or not.

"It is rather so in English, isn't it?" David asked.

"Well, it's a sissy name, if you mean that."

"Yes, it is, a little," David admitted candidly. The day's work
on the parade ground was hard, and Captain Maxey's men were soft,
felt the heat,--didn't size up well with the Kansas boys who had
been hardened by service. The Colonel wasn't pleased with B
Company and detailed them to build new barracks and extend the
sanitation system. Claude got out and worked with the men.
Gerhardt followed his example, but it was easy to see that he
had never handled lumber or tin-roofing before. A kind of rivalry
seemed to have sprung up between him and Claude, neither of them
knew why.

Claude could see that the sergeants and corporals were a little
uncertain about Gerhardt. His laconic speech, never embroidered
by the picturesque slang they relished, his gravity, and his
rare, incredulous smile, alike puzzled them. Was the new officer
a dude? Sergeant Hicks asked of his chum, Dell Able. No, he
wasn't a dude. Was he a swellhead? No, not at all; but he wasn't
a good mixer. He was "an Easterner"; what more he was would
develop later. Claude sensed something unusual about him. He
suspected that Gerhardt knew a good many things as well as he
knew French, and that he tried to conceal it, as people sometimes
do when they feel they are not among their equals; this idea
nettled him. It was Claude who seized the opportunity to be
patronizing, wh