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Mother took it herself. She was rocking, and softly singing my Dutch song that I loved best; I can't spell it, but it sounds like this: "Trus, trus, trill; Der power rid der fill, Fill sphring aveck, Plodschlicter power in der dreck."
"Hey, mamzelle," cried the top sergeant. "Voulay vous couchay aveck moy? We We, champagne." Everybody laughed, uproariously. The girl slapped his head good-naturedly. At that moment a man stamped noisily into the cafe, a tall broad- shouldered man in a loose English tunic, who had a swinging swagger that made the glasses ring on all the tables.
I wish I could get to the front and be done with it," "Say, have a heart. You need a drink," said the top sergeant, banging his fist on the table. "Say, mamselle, mame shows, mame shows!" "I didn't know you could talk French, Sarge," said Fuselli. "French, hell!" said the top sergeant. "Williams is the boy can talk French." "Voulay vous couchay aveck moy.... That's all I know." Everybody laughed.
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