If the man had been of Irish blood, such a contribution would have had little significance; natural sympathy for a compatriot in trouble might have prompted it. Such an act by a German or an American, however, suggested more than a passing interest in the violent pro-German, anti-English propaganda which this particular weekly exploited. Verifying the story by reference to the files of the newspaper, the investigator called attention to the fact in his report, and gave it as his opinion that the candidate wanted a commission to escape the draft and that he lacked the whole-hearted loyalty and enthusiasm an Army officer must have to be successful. And, as the final decision coincided with the investigator’s, the application was refused. Another incident--double-barrelled in its effect--has also its humorous side. One of the Chicago League officials picked up two deserters on Michigan Avenue early one evening last December. Neither had an overcoat, one had evidently “hocked” his blouse to provide food or drink. The League man knew he must turn them over to the police, but the boys were so cold and wretched that he determined to give them a good dinner before surrendering them. At his club, his “guests” created a certain amount of stir--and seemed to enjoy it. They “didn’t miss a station from soup to cigarettes,” as one of them expressed it. They were finishing up when a young man in a captain’s uniform came over and interjected himself into the feast. “Excuse me,” he began as the host arose, “may I ask what your interest in these men is?” His tone was a shade too crisp, even for so young a captain. “May I ask yours?” the League man countered. “I’m in command of the provost guard in Chicago,” the other declared. “It’s my business to look after deserters.” It was a fatal bit of brag. The League man knew the provost marshal--knew this fellow was an imposter. But one job at a time. “I know these chaps and I’m looking after them,” he answered. “Come along, boys.” And they departed in the olive splendour of a taxicab. Then it pulled up a little later before a red light, and a policeman opened the door. The lads were crestfallen but game. “It was bully while it lasted,” they declared. “Anyway, they’d have got us sooner or later.” Before noon next day the youthful pseudo-captain was wiping his tears away and explaining why he had been impersonating an officer. There was a group of musical comedy girls in the foreground and a trail of forged checks and unpaid club and hotel bills in the background. He is learning in Leavenworth prison, now, that the lion’s skin is dangerous apparel and that discretion is the better part of a masquerade.