So, when the Geneva-Paris express pulled in, I took my seat. My clothes must have been awful, for I noticed the poor peasant women taking unpleasant sniffs at me. However, my pride had long since ceased to be on my sleeve, so I sniffed right back at ’em. Just before we left, I was sitting back there in that third-class compartment, packed up in a corner like an oiled sardine, when, outside in the companion way I noticed a distinguished looking man, well dressed, with a big diamond flashing. Certainly he belonged in a first-class compartment, and I wondered what he was doing back there among us common peasants. As he stood there a newsboy came along, hollering “La Liberte,” and since the sight of a well-dressed man had recalled to my mind the fact that I, too, had once been more or less of a gentleman who could afford a newspaper, I stopped the boy. “Garcon,” I said, “donnez moi un journal.” That is, “Give me a paper.” The lad handed me a paper and also his hand, and so I reached in my pocket and realized that I had spent my last sous for that railroad ticket. Quite embarrassed, I handed the paper back and told him I didn’t want the paper after all. This man on the outside looked in, and to my great surprise spoke up in English. “Well,” he smiled, “you look like an American.” “Yes, sir,” I replied, “I am an American.” “Well,” he continued, offering his hand, “I’m an American too. Boggs is my name.” I extended my fist and said, “My name is Lieutenant Haslett.” “Lieutenant?” he said, with surprise, looking for my insignia of rank. “I must say you look more like a buck private.” Whereupon I found it was necessary to explain that I had been a prisoner and had just gotten out. He bought the paper for me from the anxious news kid and came across then and offered to give me money or anything else I needed. Modestly I responded that I really didn’t need it; that I would be all right, for when I got back to Paris the next morning I would soon be fixed up. Mr. Boggs insisted that I come up to the first-class compartment to meet some very charming American women and some French countesses. I must admit that, even though I did have a lot of self-pride in not wanting to make my appearance under such disadvantageous conditions, yet the opportunity to talk to a real American woman sounded like soft music to my ears. I was on the point of declining when he pulled out a real Havana cigar, which certainly would have cost him a couple of dollars at the Café de Paris or “Ciro’s.” “Here,” he said, handing it over, “you must want this, since you have probably not had a real cigar for a long time.”