I have a distinct recollection of a ridiculous conversation I carried on with an imaginary Pat O'Brien--a sort of duplicate of myself. I argued with him as I marched drearily along, and he answered me back in kind, and when we disagreed I called upon my one constant friend, the North Star, to stand by me. "There you are, you old North Star!" I cried, aloud. "You want me to get to Holland, don't you? But this Pat O'Brien--this Pat O'Brien who calls himself a soldier--he's got a yellow streak--North Star--and he says it can't be done! He wants me to quit--to lie down here for the Huns to find me and take me back to Courtrai--after all you've done, North Star, to lead me to liberty. Won't you make this coward leave me, North Star? I don't want to follow him--I just want to follow you--because you--you are taking me away from the Huns and this Pat O'Brien--this fellow who keeps after me all the time and leans on my neck and wants me to lie down--this yellow Pat O'Brien wants me to go back to the Huns!" After a spell of foolish chatter like that my senses would come back to me for a while and I would trudge along without a word until the fever came on me again. I knew that I had to have food because I was about on my last legs. I was very much tempted to lie down then and there and call it a heat. Things seemed to be getting worse for me the farther I went, and all the time I had before me the specter of that electric barrier between Belgium and Holland, even if I ever reached there alive. What was the use of further suffering when I would probably be captured in the end, anyway? Before giving up, however, I decided upon one bold move. I would approach one of the houses in the vicinity and get food there or die in the effort! I picked out a small house, because I figured there would be less likelihood of soldiers being billeted there. Then I wrapped a stone in my khaki handkerchief as a sort of camouflaged weapon, determined to kill the occupant of the house, German or Belgian, if that step were necessary in order to get food. I tried the well in the yard, but it would not work, and then I went up to the door and knocked. It was one o'clock in the morning. An old lady came to the window and looked out. She could not imagine what I was, probably, because I was still attired in that old overcoat. She gave a cry, and her husband and a boy came to the door. They could not speak English and I could not speak Flemish, but I pointed to my flying-coat and then to the sky and said "_fleger_" ("flier"), which I thought would tell them what I was.