A Chicago paper had printed his picture and a "story" about his going to enlist in the Foreign Legion--"popular young man very well known in the--th ward," said the article. He showed me, too, an extraordinary letter he had received via the newspaper, a letter written in pencil on the cheapest, shabbiest sheet of ruled note-paper, and enclosing five dollars. "I hope you will try to avenge the Lusitania," it said among other things. The letter was signed by a woman. "Do you speak French?" I asked. "Not a word," he replied. "I want to be put with the Americans or the Swedes. I speak good Swedish." Months later, on furlough, I saw in a hospital at Lyons a college classmate who had served in the Foreign Legion. "Did you know a fellow named Petersen?" I asked. "Yes, I knew him," answered my friend; "he lifted a fifty-franc note from me and got killed before I could get it back." "How did it happen?" "Went through my pockets, I imagine." "Oh, no, I meant how did he get killed?" "Stray shell sailed in as we were going through a village, and caught him and two of the other boys." "You must not make your friend talk too much," mumbled an old Sister of Charity rather crossly. The two young men with the same identical oddity of gait were salesmen of artificial legs, each one a wearer and demonstrator of his wares. The first, from Ohio, had lost his leg in a railroad accident two years before, and the second, a Virginian with a strong accent, had been done for in a motor-car smashup. One morning the man from Ohio gave us a kind of danse macabre on the deck; rolling his trouser leg high above his artificial shin, he walked, leaped, danced, and ran. "Can you beat that?" he asked with pardonable pride. "Think what these will mean to the soldiers." Meanwhile, with slow care, the Virginian explained the ingenious mechanism.