I was about to embark in their fishing smack when a French marine came along the dock and said that under no circumstances could a boat cross the harbor after sunset. My fishermen argued; I argued; even my irresistible young guide stated the case; but to no avail. Finally I said to the youngster, “Why waste my time with this creature of a marine. Lead me to the person the most important in Brest, the Mayor, the Governor, the Master of the Port, the Commander of the Fleet. From such a one I shall receive permission.” The youth gave me a quick look and I think he would have winked if my face were not so sternly set with the importance I had assumed. He led me off to the office of the Harbormaster. It was closed. I could find no person except the janitor who was sweeping the front steps. I was so put out at the prospect of not getting back from my leave on time that I had to talk to some person, so I told the janitor my worries. He insinuated that something might be arranged. I had traveled in Europe before and had learned how things get themselves arranged. So I produced from my pocket a nice shiny two-franc piece; and in a moment I discovered that I had purchased for thirty-five cents in real money the freedom of the Port of Brest. My janitor descended upon the faithful marine with brandished broom and bellowed objurgations that such a creature should block the way of this eminent American Officer who wished to return to his ship. I stood in the prow of the smack as we made our way across the dark and rainy harbor and I felt for the first time the touch of romance as one gets it in books. I thought back over the day, and I had the feeling that my adventures had begun, and had begun with a blessing. NAIVES EN BLOIS _Nov._ 27th, 1917 Naives in Blooey we call it, with a strong hoot on the last word. If Thomas Cook and Son ever managed a personally conducted party as we have been handled and then landed it in a place like this, that long established firm would have to close up business forthwith. Guy Empey and all the rest of them had prepared us for the “Hommes 40; Chevaux 8” box-cars, but description never made anybody realize discomforts. Anyway, we went through it and we would have been rather disappointed if they had brought us on our three-day trip across France in American plush-seat coaches (by the way we growled about them when we went to the Border). A year from now if we are alive we shall be listening with an unconcealed grin of superiority to some poor fish of a recruit who gabbles over the hardships he has undergone in the side-door Pullmans.