A night spent sending despatches--a yelling, singing mob beneath the windows making it almost impossible for messengers to cross to the cable office;--a dawn passed in riding from one ministry to another, wherever any portion of the war councils might still be in session;--and a forenoon spent in a Turkish bath, brought me near to the fateful hour on Saturday, August 1st, when France went to war. I went to the bath establishment for sleep; but insistently I heard the voices of the night before--the yells, the cheers and the "Marseillaise." They were just as audible in that Moorish room, with dim lights and a trickling marble fountain. There was no such thing as sleep. I went to my office and found a sum of gold awaiting me. I was glad to get that gold. I had sent an urgent letter in order to get it, in which I used such phrases as "difficulty of getting cash," "moratoriums, etc." My debtor wrote back, "What is a moratorium?" but he sent the cash. It saved the situation for me during the next month, while the financial stringency lasted. I went over to my bank, The Equitable Trust Company, to deposit it. Mr. Laurence Slade, the manager, was in the hall. "Is it safe to leave this with you," I asked, "or must I go clinking around town with it hung in a leather belt festooned about my person?" "Leave it," he suggested. "But the moratorium?" I inquired. "Won't take advantage of it with any of our customers and we will keep open unless a shell blows the place up." I thrust it into his hands, thankful that I had always used an American banking institution in Paris. All French banks took advantage of the moratorium the moment it was declared. On the boulevards the crowds were thinner than the days before. I stood watching them idly. Every one seemed to realize that the declaration of war was hanging just over our heads. There was less excitement, less feeling of all kind. I said to myself, "Well, it's coming, the greatest story in all the world and there isn't a line to be written." It was just too big to be written then--and except the official bulletins of marching events I know of nothing that was sent to any newspaper on that day either remarkable from the standpoint of writing or facts. After idling along the boulevard for a few moments, I decided to go to my usual hunting ground for news--the Embassy. I hailed a taxi, and just as I opened the door on one side to enter, a bearded Frenchman opened the door opposite. I stated that the taxi was mine, and he declared emphatically that it belonged to him. The chauffeur evidently saw us both at the same instant and could not make up his mind as to our respective rights. A crowd began to gather, as the Frenchman, recognizing that I was a foreigner, began haranguing the chauffeur. "What do you mean?" he cried. "Do you propose to let foreigners have taxis in times like this? Taxis are scarce."