"I mean, where do we go from here?"
"Ah, that's one of your songs, isn't it?" asked an English officer, one
who looked as though he could understand a joke better than could the
one to whom macaroni so appealed.
"Yes, it's a song, but we don't want to stay here too long singing it,"
laughed Joe.
"Well, I'll do my best for you," promised the officer, who was a young
man. He had been twice wounded at the front and was only awaiting a
chance to go back, he said. "I'll do my best, but it will take a little
time. We'll have to send the papers to France and wait for their
return."
"And what are we to do in the meanwhile?" asked Blake.
"I fancy you'll just have to stay here and--what is it you say--split
kindling?"
"'Saw wood,' I guess you mean," said Joe. "Well, if we have to, we have
to. But please rush it along, will you?"
"I'll do my best," promised the young officer. "Meanwhile, you had
better let me have your address--I mean the name of the hotel where you
will be staying--and I'll send you word as soon as I get it myself. I
had better tell you, though, that you will not be allowed to take any
pictures--moving or other kind--until you have received permission."
"We'll obey that ruling," Blake promised.
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