After we had alighted and threaded our way across the Wilhelms Platz, Kent found a station of the Underground. “Take a first-class ticket for yourself. I’ll buy two,” were his instructions, whispered in German. I bought a third-class one. I did not want to. I was merely too funky to ask for first-class. It meant the pronunciation of an extra word. I could have spoken it as correctly as any German, but suppose there was no first-class on the Underground! They’d get suspicious! It was very silly of me. Mistake No. 1. Naturally, the third-class was crowded. It is not the custom in Germany to be polite to the gentler sex. I knew it as well as anybody. But when an elderly woman, looking very tired, was clinging to a strap just in front of me, I was on my feet before I knew what I was doing. She declined the proffered seat in confusion. To repair my “break,” I hastily sat down again, my ears burning. Mistake No. 2. Kent looked daggers at me from the opposite seat, and as soon as he had a chance I got my wigging. At the Leipziger Platz the throng was thicker, if anything. There was not the faintest chance of getting into a train. “There are some droshkies down there,” said Kent, pulling my arm to attract my attention. “Get one!” I answered curtly. The marvelous thing was that the driver accepted us as fares. The luggage we were carrying, and our destination, Lehrter Bahnhof, did the trick, I believe. The drive through the Sieges Allee, past the greater atrocity of the “Iron Hindenburg,” and farther through deserted residential streets, was splendid. We lit cigarettes, and I regained my coolness. I wanted it. Grimly I reflected that two mistakes were quite enough for one day. We found the booking-hall of the Lehrter Station crowded at eleven o’clock. Kent and I deposited our luggage and took our places in the long queue in front of the booking-office. “What time the eleven-forty-seven for Hanover to-night?” I asked a porter who was passing me. “Twelve-forty-seven, but to-night only.” We had almost two hours to get through, somehow and somewhere. Not at the station, that was certain. “Follow Tynsdale and me. Keep as far in the rear as possible, and don’t lose us,” I told Kent. The Lehrter Station is situated in the northwestern part of Berlin. There seemed no decent cafés near at hand in which we could spend the time and get a drink. As we were very thirsty, however, we found a low-class place not very far off in which we ordered a glass of beer each. When the waitress brought the drink she told us ungraciously that the café was going to be closed in a few minutes. Hastily we emptied our glasses, glad to get out of the place with as little delay as possible. Three German privates were eyeing us from a table close to ours much too attentively for our liking.