Along about the middle of the show our own usher popped up before me and held out her right hand, at the same time exhibiting both teeth in an ingratiating smile. I shook the proffered hand. She withdrew her teeth. “Non, non, non, non,” she said. I asked her what she voulez-voued. She was coy. “Do you want a tip?” I inquired in plain Michigan. Both teeth reappeared. A dental curiosity drove me to hand her three francs. I had not underestimated. In the second act a very nice-looking lady sang _A Broken Doll_ in plain Thirty-ninth Street. The stage chorus tried to help her out on the second refrain, but, with all due modesty, I must say that it was the Canadians and I who earned the vociferous encore. _Lundi, 27 Août. Paris._ The first batch of laundry was back when I returned from the theater Saturday night. Collars were done up in a neat package, tied with baby-blue ribbon. They looked just as when I had sent them out except that there was a high, shiny polish over the soiled spots. As for handkerchiefs, let us follow the British communiqué style: “Eleven of our handkerchiefs went over the Blanchisserie lines. Two came back. Nine are missing.” Some practical joker suggested that I go out yesterday afternoon and watch a baseball game between a Canadian team and a club from the American Red Cross. St. Cloud was the battle ground. You pronounce St. Cloud exactly as it is not spelled. A taxi man took us out there by way of Kansas City and El Paso, and during the forty minutes’ trip he was in high speed at least one minute. We bumped into a ceremony of awards. French soldiers to the number of two hundred were being given the Croix de Guerre. The ceremony over, we crossed the race track and got on to the baseball field. There was an hour of badly needed practise, and then the two belligerents went at each other in a so-called ball game. It was stopped at the end of the eighth inning on account of rain, eight innings too late. The rain, I am told, was long overdue, and we may expect gobs of it between now and then. I am writing this early Monday morning, and early Monday morning is when we were supposed to start for the American camp. But there seems to be a difference of opinion over the meaning of the French adverb “early.” _Tuesday, August 28. Somewhere in France._ “Early” proved to be half past ten yesterday morning. Joe drove us to the city limits, and there we had to pause. According to this year’s rules, ye automobilist pauses at the limits, has his gasoline measured, and then goes on. Returning to town, he has to pay a tax on the added amount of gasoline he brings, or something like that. We were allowed to go out of town, and some thirty yards beyond the limits we found a garage. There we filled up with essence. Howard did the cranking, which is a necessity with all French cars, and away we went.