Hours meant nothing to the austere Swiss on that night, for when we pulled into Geneva at 11 P. M., there was the same tremendous crowd, with American flags, good cheer, and things to eat. All the way along, even from the first, it was the same. At one little town where we stopped for the engine to get water, there was only one little store near the railroad, but the Swiss man who ran it gave us every bit of wine he had in there, which was about thirty bottles, and then began to feed us cookies. He could speak nothing but German, which was “Alles for den Amerikaner,” meaning “Everything for the Americans.” And he seemed pleased to have the opportunity to do it. In that part of Switzerland, they speak German, but, of course, around Lausanne and Geneva, French is the common tongue. But it was a real “coming out.” In fact, it was Cæsar’s Triumphal March, Woodrow Wilson’s entrance into Paris, and Pershing on Fifth Avenue, all combined, for we were the King Bees when it came to Swiss chocolate, and they certainly handed it out. I became so ill that I could barely navigate, but it all seemed so much like a dream that I continued to consume chocolate whether I wanted to or not for fear the dream would end. On the morning of December first, we crossed the border at Bellegarde. There was a big hospital train waiting to meet us, but, for some reason or other, their orders would not permit them to pull out before six or seven that evening. Our destination was some hospital near Dijon. That didn’t sound interesting to me. I was tired of being confined, and I felt that it was my duty to join my organization for the war was still on. So, I took some of my most valued friends into my confidence, and relieved them of every cent of money they had, from pfennigs to souvenirs, which I finally got exchanged, and got enough French money to get a third-class passage to Paris.