Buttons | Page 2

a rest period, however, he
bothered her to death with his makings of love. He took her in a boat on
the river Deule, and said he loved to hear her talk. If that was all he said
he loved, Emilie would not have minded, but he was more inclusive.
Her passion was for buttons, not proposals. Her collection of the latter,
nevertheless, was almost as varied and extensive as her purloined bag
full of buttons.
All of this she explained to the unscrupulous Cottingham as they
lingered in the garden back of the house. She felt that an explanation
was due him, because he was one of the very finest makers of love that
she had ever had the pleasure to resist, and because he was going back
to his trench in the morning, and this might be the last chance.
"Yes, M'sieu Veek," she said, "I would like very much to go back to
your beautiful place in England with you, but you will probably be
killed. Then I would have neither my Veek nor my buttons. It is too
much to ask of a poor French girl."

"How do you know I will be killed?" demanded the ardent Vic.
"A one-leg husband would be just as bad."
"How do you know I will lose a leg?" shouted the predestined victim.
"I intend to get out of this war all in one piece."
"Even then I would be without my priceless buttons, Veek."
"By gad, I'll follow that Gottlieb to Berlin and get your pesky buttons.
Will you do it then?" Here was a spark of hope. Emilie's heart began to
throb with excitement. Perhaps those buttons which she mourned as
irretrievable might be restored to her. A wave of gratitude for the
originator of this splendid idea swept over her, and her hand rested
momentarily upon his. For this indiscretion she had to battle valiantly
for the next minute and a half to protect the citadel of her lips.
"You are a bad Veek," she exclaimed; "but if you should get my
buttons back I could-could love you maybe for a month, perhaps."
Then she broke away and tried to run in the house, but the
unscrupulous one caught her.
"Will you promise, Emilie, to go back to go England with me if I get
'em?"
"I will promise that thing, Veek," she replied, and darted into the house
and safety.
Lieutenant Vic Cottingham entered the little hole of a dugout which
was the throne room from which he ruled his little section of trench and
sent for Sergeant Sands of the Suicide Club, better known as the unholy
order of bombers. The sergeant was red-headed and Scotch-Irish, as
you might suspect. By trade he was rivet slinger for hard-working steel
construction gangs. By present occupation he was the latest thing in
bombers.
"Yes, sir," he said.

"Was there a raid last night, sergeant?"
"There was not, sir."
"We have no prisoners then, I take it?"
"One poor Fritz was yanked out of a shell crater just before dawn. He is
too scared to count, sir."
"Bring him here, sergeant," ordered Cottingham, "and get an
interpreter."
It was truly pitiful, the dilapidation of that Fritz. He was half naked and
dirty and unshaven. And hungry! He had been in that crater for four
days without a bite. His mouth watered at the sight of the lieutenant's
candle.
"Do you know Captain Gottlieb Nienstedt?" began the lieutenant, and
the Fritz immediately began to get scared, that is, more scared than he
already was. The interpreter talked with him a moment.
"He says Captain Nienstedt is with the Bavarian Forty-Third, sir."
"Where is his company located?" came the next question.
The Fritz and the interpreter had quite a wrangle over this. "He says he
won't tell," said the linguist finally.
Cottmgham roared. "He says he won't tell? By gad, we'll make him tell!
Sergeant, go fetch a big breakfast and place it on the table." This was
quickly provided, and the Fritz began to writhe the minute the smell of
bacon hit him. His eyes popped out and he gurgled to the interpreter.
"He says he will now tell," said the latter.
Then, after more throaty gurgling by the Fritz, "He says the captain's
company is directly opposite us."
"Where is his dugout?" demanded the inquisitor.

"Just over the knoll, about fifty yards north of the communication
trench," was the reply.
"Ask the prisoner if Captain Nienstedt is known to have any buttons,"
said Cottingham.
"He says damn few, sir. He says the captain needs a new uniform."
The lieutenant swore a little. "I mean, has he a collection of buttons?"
The Fritz became voluble at this question.
His sergeant had spoken of a very great collection of buttons in a bag,