went on, Jeanne eagerly devouring part of a cake of chocolate, though she also persisted in clinging to Jack's hand. Somehow it made the boy feel much older when he felt that confiding little hand in his. It seemed as though new responsibilities had been suddenly thrust upon him.
The approach of night had put an end to most of the clamor that made day seem so hideous. Only occasionally did a Big Bertha in the far distance growl menacingly, to be followed by the crash of a mighty shell somewhere within a mile or two of the spot where Jack and his charge walked along through the forest.
He was stopped and challenged frequently, but having the countersign, had no difficulty in passing the sentries. Many campfires twinkled under the trees, near and far, where tired doughboys were resting and doubtless exchanging stories of the day's exciting achievements; or talking of home—what Broadway looked like, or Fourth Street, or Canal Street; what the result of the world series of baseball games, a pet subject of dispute among these brawny followers of the national sport.
"Getting tired, are you, Jeanne?" asked Jack presently, noticing that the child dragged her little feet at times, despite all efforts to show a brave front.
Without waiting for an answer Jack scooped
