“I got some mustarrd gas in a vinegarr jarr,” he said. “Want to see it?”
“Thank you,” I answered, “but I have had enough gas for one war. I think you are yourself quite enough of a souvenir for me. I shall not lose track of you again. Roy and I intend to put you where we can always have you handy.” And I winked at my young literary partner.
“I got a piece of wirre from a wirreless, too,” Archer persisted, as if his store was inexhaustible.
The doubtful nature of this last-mentioned memento gave me an uncomfortable feeling that I was being made fun of, so I retorted with severe sarcasm, “I do not care for that, but if you have a ring or two from the bell of Rheims Cathedral I might be willing to accept it.”
“If you want to see the belles,” he said, “come to the barrn dance on Saturrday night.”
“And how are all your friends on the other side?” I inquired, venturing upon a new tack. “Sir Douglas Haig and Papa Clemenceau? I hope they are quite well.”
“Pretty smarrt,” he answered, “but they couldn’t come home with me on account of being busy.”
“Too bad,” said I; “and General Pershing and your old college chum, Marshal Foch—how are they?”
“Fine and dandy. They sent theirr kind regarrds to you.”
“Their kind what?” said Tom in that sober way of his.
But for answer Archer toppled him off the fence, where he had reseated himself, to the amusement of Roy, who sat down on the ground, drew his knees up, clasped his hands about them, and laughed so that he shook.
And, do you know, I think that right there, with Roy Blakeley laughing his merry laugh and the famous, patent-applied-for scout smile spread all over his roguish face, is the place to end this rambling story. For in that laugh, as in the spring breeze, there is promise. And if you will but hold your hand to your ear, scout fashion, and fancy that you can hear his joyous uproar, you may take it as a reminder that the bloody warpath has, after all, brought us back to the solemn, friendly trees and the placid lake of the beloved camp once more, and that we are parting but to meet again in the scouts’ own season, which is the good old summertime.