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Updated: May 22, 2025
We all accused him of being their favourite, as he had nicknamed them "Ox-eye" and "Freckleface," names much more descriptive than the Marie and Jeanne their parents had chosen, and, having taken "Ox-eye" into our confidence, told her that poor Lyte was "très timide." That was all she required, and from then on she directed all her charms toward him.
Bob Irvin ran to the plate waving his bat at Harris. "Put one over, you freckleface! I 've been dyin' fer this chanst. You're on Madden's Hill now." Muckle evidently was not the kind of pitcher to stand coolly under such bantering. Obviously he was not used to it. His face grew red and his hair waved up. Swinging hard, he threw the ball straight at Bob's head. Quick as a cat, Bob dropped flat.
Our brigade was the first to be relieved, marching out on the night of May 3rd, wondering vaguely where we were going, and also, perhaps, what would become of our friends "Ox-eye" and "Freckleface," with their stolid faces, their ample bosoms, and their square hips. Our next stop was Bailleul, a town of some fifteen thousand inhabitants just over the Franco-Belgian frontier.
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