We adjourned to the diner. A sign there said: “Non Fumeurs.” The captain pointed to it. “That’s brief enough,” he said. “That’s once when the French is concise. But you ought to see the Chinese for that. I was in a town near the British front recently where some Chinese laborers are encamped. In the station waiting-room, it says: ‘No Smoking’ in French, English, Russian and Italian. The Russian is something like ‘Do notski smokevitch,’ and the Italian is ‘Non Smokore’. Recently they have added a Chinese version, and it’s longer than the Bible. A moderate smoker could disobey the rules forty times before he got through the first chapter and found out what they were driving at.” Be that as it may, I have observed that everybody in France smokes whenever and wherever he or she desires, regardless of signs. We did now, and so did our guest, while waiting for the first course, which was black bread baked in a brickyard. “I would love to go to America,” said mademoiselle. “You wouldn’t care for it,” replied the captain promptly. “It’s too wild.” “How is it wild?” “Every way: manners, habits, morals. The majority of the people, of course, are Indians, and you just can’t make them behave.” She asked whether either of us had ever been in New York. The captain said he’d passed through there once on the way to Coney Island. She wanted to know if New York was bigger than Paris. “It’s bigger than France,” said Captain Jones. Monsieur was trying to make a game of her. “Well, anyway,” said the captain, “you could lose France in Texas.” What was Texas? “Texas,” said the captain, “is the place they send soldiers when they’ve been bad. It’s way out west, near Chicago.” The lady had heard of Chicago. “This gentleman works there,” said the captain. “He’s part Indian, but he was educated at Carlisle and is somewhat civilized. He gets wild only on occasions.” The lady regarded me rather scaredly. “He lives on the plains outside the city,” continued the captain, “and rides to his work and back on a zebra. Practically all the suburban savages have zebras, and the Chicago traffic police have a fierce time handling them during their owners’ working hours. They run wild around the streets and in the department stores, and snap at women, especially brunettes.” We had attained the potato course. The French positively will not serve potatoes as other than a separate course. I was about to help myself to a generous portion when the captain cried: “Here! Better leave those things alone. You know what they do to you.” I told him I didn’t believe two or three would hurt, and proceeded to take three. “When a half Indian eats potatoes,” said the captain, “he usually forgets himself and runs amuck.” Our guest probably didn’t know what a muck was, but it had an unpleasant sound, and the look she gave me was neither friendly nor trusting.