Captain Jones, which isn’t his name, called attention to the signs on the window warning MM. Les Voyageurs to keep their anatomies indoors. The signs were in three languages. “Ne pas Pencher au Dehors,” said the French. The English was “Danger to Lean Outside.” And the Wop: “Non Sporgere”--very brief. It was evident that a fourth variation of the warning had been torn off, and it didn’t require a William Burns to figure out in what language it had been written. “If there were a boche on this train,” said Captain Jones, “he could lean his head off without hurting any one’s feelings.” “Languages are funny,” continued the captain sagely. “The French usually need more words than we do to express the same thought. I believe that explains why they talk so fast--they’ve got so much more to say.” I inquired whether he knew French. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I’ve been over here so long that I can even tell the money apart.” The dining-car conductor came in to ask whether we wanted the first or second “série” luncheon. You must reserve your seat at table on trains here or you can’t eat. We decided on the second, and so did our charming compartment mate. Captain Jones, supposing she could not understand English, said: “Shall you take her to lunch or shall I?” I was about to be magnanimous when she remarked, with a scornful glance at the captain: “I shall myself take me to lunch if monsieur has no objection.” The cap was temporarily groggy, but showed wonderful recuperative powers and in five minutes convinced her that he would toss himself into the Seine if she refused to eat with us. She accepted, after some stalling that convinced me she had been cordially inclined all the while. General polite conversation ensued, and soon came the inevitable French question: How many American soldiers were there in France? I have heard it asked a million times, and I have heard a million different answers. The captain gave the truthful reply: “I don’t know.” [Illustration: “I shall myself take me to lunch if monsieur has no objections”] “This war,” he said, “should be called the War of Rumors. The war will be over by Christmas. The war won’t be over for ten years. The boche is starving. The Allies are getting fat. The boche has plenty to eat. The Allies are dying of hunger. Our last transport fleet sank five subs. Our last transport fleet was sunk by a whole flotilla of subs. Montenegro’s going to make a separate peace with Bosnia. There is talk of peace negotiations between Hungary and Indiana. Ireland, Brazil and Oklahoma are going to challenge the world. They’re going to move the entire war to the Balkans and charge admission. The Kaiser’s dying of whooping cough. You can learn anything you want to or don’t want to know. Why”--this to me--“don’t you fellas print the truth?” “And where,” I asked him, “would you advise us to go and get it?” “The same place I got it,” said the captain. “And what is it?” “I don’t know.”