OFF TO SEE FRITZ IN HIS WILD STATE

By the time that Dick and his brother officers left the ship in the wake of Captain Ribaut, the infantrymen massed along the nearby street had been gladdened by the sight of a few score of French women and children who came to the water front to look on.

Half of the regiment was now ashore and the rest were going over the side slowly.

At the head of the pier Captain Cartwright saluted Major Wells and Captain Ribaut, and found chance to say to Prescott in a low tone: 

“You’re always one of the lucky ones!  How do you manage it?”

“I don’t know that there is any system possible in inviting luck,” Dick smiled.

“You’re going right up to the actual front.  You’ll see Fritz in his wild state.  I envy you!”

“Your turn will come, Cartwright.”

“It can’t come too soon then.  For to-day, and the next few days, I can’t see anything ahead of me but drudgery.”

Ever since that quarrel at Camp Berry, Cartwright had kept mostly away from Prescott and Holmes.  Dick, who knew the captain for an indolent chap, didn’t know whether, in other respects, he liked him.  To most of the officers of the Ninety-ninth Cartwright appeared to be more unfortunate than worthless.

“Gentlemen,” said Captain Ribaut, when they had passed the head of the pier, “I think that I can obtain a car if you wish it.  What is your pleasure?”

“Thank you, but we’ve been on shipboard for so many days that we’ll enjoy the chance to stretch our legs,” replied Major Wells.  “A walk of a few miles would do us a lot of good this morning.”

“It is not that far,” replied the French captain, who spoke excellent English.  “The distance is, I should say, about two kilometers.”

As that meant a little more than a mile the party walked off briskly.

“Why, this doesn’t look really like a French town,” declared Major Wells.

“You Americans have been coming here for so many months that you have made the city American,” explained Captain Ribaut.  “See, even the shops display signs in English, and very few in French.  It is on American money that these shops thrive.  Here comes one of our own poilus, a sight you will not see many times in this American town on French soil.”

Poilus is a French word meaning “shaggy,” and is commonly applied to the French enlisted man.  As this French soldier drew close he brought up his hand in smart salute to his own officer and the Americans.  Greg turned to look back, but the French soldier was no longer looking their way.

Up the street, away from where the Ninety-ninth American sentries were posted, soldiers of the American military police patrolled.

“You see how American this city has become,” said Captain Ribaut.  “Here French law runs only for citizens of France.  Your American military authorities look after your own men.”