But I couldn’t give up. “Come on, Henry, come on,” I said. “You know me—I’m Haslett, who used to be here with Len Hammond.” “Oh,” he blustered, equally shocked, “I know Lieutenant Haslett, but you’re not Lieutenant Haslett.” “I beg your pardon, but I am,” I replied, getting a little heated. “I’m getting tired of having people tell me I’m not. Now what I want, Henry, is a room, and the clerk says he has no rooms, and I know damned well he has. I look like the devil, I know. But listen,” and I whispered in his ear. “Don’t tell it, but I have just gotten back from Germany, where I’ve been a prisoner of war, and I don’t want the newspapers to know it because I want to have a few days rest. You go up and tell him I’m all right and want a room. You know me, Henry. I’ll fix it up right with you.” The prisoner sympathy stuff did not have the pull with Henry as the magic little words “I’ll fix it right with you.” That seems to get by everywhere. So the old boy went over and fixed it up and assigned me to one of the nicest rooms they had. For the rest of the morning I kept two servants busy bringing me food and charging it to my bill. Then I wrote a check, dating it before my capture, and proceeded to send it to the concierge. He cashed it and then life was a little more easy. Just as I was leaving the hotel I ran on to some of my friends—the first boys I had seen since I left Germany, and, of course, they wouldn’t let me leave, but took me up and bought me a big dinner. They took me to the Café de Paris and, believe me, I was some sensation, for while I had been eating and had eaten plentifully those few days, I still had a lot to make up for and I had a huge appetite. In fact, it was a continuing appetite. The bill at the Café for the three of us was something like $45.00, because I ordered everything they had, which, of course, included the necessary emoluments, and fixtures, and all the dainty and choice things both in season and out. Finally I tore loose and took a taxi down to the Gare de l’Est, where I found practically the same situation as at the Gare de Lyons, only that you had to show orders before you could purchase a ticket. My train left at 3:00 o’clock and it was now about five minutes before time for the train to pull out. I knew it would be impossible to go through the red tape of getting a ticket O. K.’d, for I had the big chance of being held. I rushed up to the ticket window and asked for a ticket to Bar-le-Duc. The lady shook her head and tried to tell me in English that it was impossible to sell tickets to the Americans without a purchase authorization check. With apparent surprise I demanded in French that she speak French or Belgian. Thinking that I was making remarks about her rotten English, she proceeded to tell me the same in French. “Ha! ha! ha! Madame,” I laughed. “You make me laugh very much. That is very funny. I am very pleased at your compliment. Do you think I am American or Belgian?” I had almost