Goose step; and the French
prove they have none at all by incasing the defenseless legs of
their soldiers in those foolish red-flannel pants that are
manufactured in such profusion up at the Pantheon.
In the event of another war between the two nations I anticipate
a frightful mortality among pants - especially if the French forces
should be retreating. The German soldier is not a particularly
good marksman as marksmen go, but he would have to be the worst
shot in the world to miss a pair of French pants that were going
away from him at the time.
Still, when all is said and done, there is something essentially
Frenchy about those red pants. There is something in their length
that instinctively suggests Toulon, something in their breadth
that makes you think of Toulouse. I realize that this joke, as
it stands, is weak and imperfect. If there were only another
French seaport called Toubagge I could round it out and improve
it structurally.
If the English private soldier is the trimmest, the Austrian officer
is the most beautiful to look on. An Austrian officer is gaudier
than the door-opener of a London cafe or the porter of a Paris
hotel.
