Convinced that our hill was a zone of safety, for this afternoon at least, I wanted to stay up there and look and listen till it was time to go home. But our captain had arranged a trip to a sniping school, and our captain would rather have broken his monocle than have made the slightest alteration in the program for the day. To the sniping school we went, and saw the snipers sniping on their snipes. It was just like the sniping school I had visited at the American camp, and I got pretty mad at our captain for dragging us away from a sight far more interesting. But he redeemed himself by having the major in charge show us real, honest-to-goodness camouflage, staged by an expert. We were taken to a point two hundred yards distant from a trench system. “Standing up in front of one of those trenches,” said the major, “there’s a sergeant in costume. He’s in plain sight. Now you find him.” Well, we couldn’t find him, and we gave up. “Move, Sergeant!” shouted the major. The sergeant moved and, sure enough, there he was! “I had him spotted all the time,” said The Doctor. The major directed the sergeant to change to a costume of a different hue. When the change had been made we were required to turn our backs till he had “hidden” himself again. Again he was “in plain sight,” and again we had to give up. Again he was ordered to move, and we saw him, this time in colors diametrically opposed to those of his first garb. “I had him spotted all the time,” said The Doctor. The sergeant went through his entire repertory of tricks, but the rest must not be reported. It occurred to me on the way back to our machines that some football coach could make a fish out of the defensive team by camouflaging his back field. Our captain and the Harvard prof. climbed into the front car, leaving The Doctor, his secretary, and me to bring up the rear. The sec. sat with the driver; The Doctor and I in the back seat. “How long have you been over here?” inquired The Doctor at length. I told him. “How many American soldiers are there in France?” I told him. After an impressive pause, he said: “As a matter of fact, there are really--” And he increased my estimate by four hundred per cent. “Of course,” he continued, “I have the right figures. They were furnished me by the Defense League before I left home. They naturally wouldn’t give them to a writer because they don’t want them published.” “And naturally,” says I, “whenever they tell a writer anything in strict confidence, he rushes to the nearest Local and Long Distance Telephone Booth and gets Wilhelmstrasse on the wire.” “Oh, no,” said The Doctor. “But a writer might think it was his duty to send the correct information to his paper.” “Did you ever hear of the censorship?” I asked him. “There are ways of eluding it.” “And do you think all writers are that kind?” He shrugged a fat shoulder. “Not all, possibly a very few. But one never can tell the right kind from the wrong.”