“Honey,” said her mother, “I can understand why you should be proud of your birthday gifts, but grown people are not interested in such things. You may come to dinner to-night on condition that you do not once mention your wrist-watch or your bottle of perfumery.” The little one promised. At the table she sat, saying not a word, but from time to time sniffing audibly, and at frequent intervals raising her left wrist to her ear to catch the sound of the ticking. These tactics failed to attract attention. Toward the end of the meal, in a lull in the conversation, little Miss Helen spoke: “Listen, everybody,” she said. “If anybody hears anything or smells anything, it’s me.” § 96 The Truth from the Inside The dining car waiter was one of those persons who feel a sense of personal proprietorship in the institutions they serve—a type not at all uncommon among members of his race. His manner, his voice, all about him, subtly conveyed the idea that here was one who took a deep pride in the undertaking of feeding people on a transcontinental train, and was determined that no blot ever should besmirch the fair name of the system. So when the gentleman who was going to California gave a breakfast order of grapefruit, toast, coffee and soft-boiled eggs, he bent over the patron and in confidential tones whispered: “Boss, I would not keer to reccermend the aigs this mawnin’! Naw, suh, I would suggest you tuck somethin’ else on the bill.” “What’s the matter with the eggs—aren’t they fresh?” asked the customer. The waiter’s voice sank still lower. “I don’t know ef they’s fresh or ef they ain’t,” he said; “but to tell you the truth, we ain’t got none.” § 97 The Fate of the Saloon In the last months of the fighting in 1918, a draft regiment of colored troops from the Gulf States went in near the Flanders line, where the British held, to help mop up the retreating Germans. One morning three of my fellow-correspondents borrowed a staff car and rode up to an abandoned village where there had been sharp fighting, seeking for a forward dressing-station with intent to get stories from wounded men. At an entrance to an improvised hospital in a dugout one of the group came upon a coal-black infantryman who, while not seriously injured, bore unmistakable signs of having come into abrupt contact with some form of high and violent explosive. He was wearing, for the moment, his belt and his boots and a part of his collar. The correspondent said to him: “Soldier, how did you get hurt?” “Well, mister,” stated the victim, “it ain’t altogether clear in my own mind yit, but I could mebbe tell you some of de things w’ich hez occurred.” “I should be very pleased to hear them.”