Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 215, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 September 1918 — SOT THE BANANAS [ARTICLE]

SOT THE BANANAS

Patriotic American in Bordet Town Did Extra “Bit” How Marching Boy* In Olive Draft Got Delicacy Almoat Under the Eyes of the Discipline* Loving Sergeant It is midnight In the border town across the river the populace has gone to bed. The streets are deserted and silent save for the measured tread of the occasional policeman on his nocturnal rounds. But the lights are still glowing in the railway station on the water front, their brightness intentfled by the enveloping gloom, j A train of Pullmans rumbles in from the ferry dock with a great jangling of bells and creaking of wheels as the brakes take hold. In the stillness of the night the racket is magnified a thousandfold, but the town slumbers on. Above the incessant clang of the locomotive bell and the hiss of escaping steam there comes to the ears of the wayfarer from the States a sound that instantly claims his attention —the rhythmic tramp, tramp, of feet, hundreds, thousands of them it seems, as the faint staccato becomes a muffled roar. There is no resisting its lure. The wayfarer turns in his tracks and

waits. “Left—turn!” rings out the crisp command close at hand and, with wheel-like precision, a column of marching men in the familiar olive drab rolls into view around the corner. “Yanks, sure as I’m alivel” exclaims the man from the -States as he falls into step and follows along the sidewalk. Yes, Yanks —Uncle Sam’s own doughboys on their way to Berlin via the western front, and out to limber up and get a breath of fresh air while a new engine is being hooked up. * On they come, alert, keen-eyed fellows fresfi from the training camps, splendid Americans all, and eager for a brush with the Hun. Still the town slumbers —It is accustomed io such sights; but to the American, taken unawares, it is an inspiring thing.

Far up the street an oasis in the black desert of night, a friendly light beacons. As the. column approaches the boys recognize the familiar outlines of a fruit stand. The enterprising merchant knows all about these midnight “parades” and is prepared. A thousand pairs of eyes turn hungrily to bunches of yellow bananas dangling from their hooks, but the trim young sergeant is looking straight ahead. They are all business, those sergeants. The man from the States has seen it all; it is his chance. A crisp American bank note quickly changes hands and presently there is an empty hook where a bunch of bananas hung a moment before. Magically, it seems, the coveted fruit has found its way into the rear ranks. Like a cork in a rough sea the bulky thing is tossed along from line to line, growing constantly smaller until the bare stalk is thrown into the gutter, leaving a hundred bulging pockets in its wake. Thus did ene patriotic fund subscriber do an extra “bit” for the boys of the olive drab. At any rate, he wore the patriotic fund emblem on his coat