Don Hale Over There — Reading Notes

tan had no difficulty in translating the following:

"Don't judge too soon. Give him a chance. I'll bet he'll make good."

"A grouch of the first class, Don."

Again: "Don't judge too soon."

"What's the matter--do you chaps think you're woodpeckers?" broke in Bodkins. "Come, boys, let's entertain ourselves. How's this for improvising?"

And the musician, twanging his banjo, began to sing and play in a decidedly lusty manner.

"Pardon--I thought you wanted us to entertain ourselves," snickered "Peewee" Burns, a very fat, round-faced driver. "Fellows, Bodkins' improvisations have about the same effect on me as Boche shells falling uncomfortably close. I can't beat it too fast."

"Humph!--there's another arrow from jealousy's quiver that slipped harmlessly past," grunted Bodkins. "Why, you poor, ignorant chump, you couldn't tell the difference between music and the blare of a Klaxon."

Then, quite satisfied with this crushing retort, Bodkins began once more. Loudly, and with a most extraordinary accent, he sang some of the latest songs of the poilus,[1] and the others helped him manfully in the chorus.

[Footnote 1: Literally "hairy ones." The affectionate slang term that all France applies to its private soldiers.]

Thus, for fully fifteen minutes there was so much jollification and noise in the room that the sounds from without were effectually denied an entrance.

At length John Weymouth raised his hand.

"Hold on, boys," he cried. "Enough of this kind of music is too much. What's the next number on the program?"

"Let's all take turns jumping on Bodkins' banjo," suggested "Peewee," pleasantly. "I've got a pair of extra-heavy boots."

"There's enough danger about without inviting any more," laughed Wendell. "Somebody tell a story. Now's your chance, Chase."

The latter shook his head.

"Sorry I can't oblige," he said. "But my gift of gab is less than is usually given to mortals."

"He's sure to ring in something about painting or artists," declared "Peewee." "It's a most oddly odd thing what a grip art and music get on some people."

"Commonplace individuals of course can't be expected to understand it," remarked the musician, loftily. "Your bleatings, 'Peewee,' are----"

"Order, order!" interrupted the Sous Chef. "Dunstan has the platform."

"What shall it be--fact or fiction?" asked the art student.

"Give us a little true fiction," remarked Wendell, with a laugh.

Dunstan took a quick turn or two across the room, looked up at the ceiling, then down at the bare planks beneath his feet. Finally he raised his head so as to survey the crowd.

"By George, fellows, that effect of light and shade on your faces and figures is simply corking!" he cried, with enthusiasm. "Rembrandt himself----"

"I told you!" snickered "Peewee."

"The story first and Rembrandt afterward," commented Watts.

"All right, boys." Dunstan, with a sigh of resignation, seated himself on the edge of the table and began swinging his legs to and fro. "I'll relate a little bit of truth that may sound like fiction. Hello!"

Two other concussions, though not quite so loud as the one previously heard, crashed in upon his sentence.

Chase squirmed uneasily in his seat. It required no skilled observer to detect the fact that his nerves were shaking.

"Confound it!" he muttered.

"Oh, that's nothing," Weymouth assured him. "When they hit the house next door it'll be time enough to worry."

"As I wasn't saying," resumed Dunstan, after a moment or two had passed, "my story concerns a French château--one of those typical old châteaus dating from the feudal ages, and within the massive walls of which----"

"He's getting off to a good, flowery start, all right," chirruped "Peewee."

"The nobles and landed gentry dwelt." Then, with a cheery laugh, Dunstan continued, in a more matter-of-fact way: "Just the other day a couple of poilus gave me the tale I'm now passing along to you. In this ancient château, which the Germans shelled and partly wrecked, there lived a direct descendent of one of those old-time seigneurs. The soldiers declared he resided in the great château alone, with a retinue of servants, and that he had the reputation of being an eccentric old chap with one great hobby."

"And what was that?" queried Wendell.

"The collection of paintings and objects of art."

"There it comes, boys!--the art stuff again!" exclaimed "Peewee," yawning. "Say, this is a fairy tale, eh, Dunstan?"

His words were couched in a tone of accusation.

"No, mon ami, not a bit of it," declared the art student, earnestly. "A long article concerning the Morancourt case appeared in a Paris newspaper."

"Morancourt? Why, that's the old place right near us here--up toward the front!"

"That's the very place, my son."

"Hah! The plot thickens. What is the 'case' you spoke of?"