On that day I nearly became an English soldier. On one of the platforms, erected in the midst of a public square, I saw an orator standing up and addressing the people—of course, angling for recruits. In the most brilliant colours, and with the highest enthusiasm, he depicted to the attentive crowd the _entrée_ into London of victorious German troops. “The streets of London,” he said, “will re-echo to the tread of the ‘Huns’; your wives will be ravished by German soldiers and trampled on by their muddy boots. Will you allow this, free Britons?” An indignant “No” sounded back. “Very well, then—come and join the army now!” I expected a general rush forward, for the man had spoken most impressively; but no one budged, no one volunteered, or believed that Kitchener specially wanted _him_. The orator now started all over again, but his flaming words fell on deaf ears. In the meantime, English recruiting sergeants moved about the crowd. Everywhere people shook their heads. Not one of Albion’s valorous sons was having any. Suddenly my turn came. A sergeant as tall as a lamp-post stood before me and felt the biceps of my forearms. He seemed very pleased with his examination, for he tried to convince me by all the means in his power that to be a soldier in Kitchener’s army was the most beautiful thing in the world. I refused. “No,” I said; “it is quite impossible. I am only seventeen.” “Oh, that don’t matter; we shall simply turn it into eighteen, and that’ll be all right.” “No, really, it’s quite impossible. Moreover, I am an American, and have no permission from my Captain.” The persistent fellow now produced an oleograph on which the English uniforms were depicted in the gaudiest colours. He simply would not let me go. To get rid of him I asked him to leave it with me, and promised to talk it over with my skipper, and to tell him next day which uniform I preferred. It goes without saying that I always made a great detour round this place.