But during the hectic week when France went to war the censorship was almost overlooked and there were a few precious hours during which the correspondents and their methods of communication were free. The first sign of the censor was the shutting off of the telephone between Paris and London. It had been my custom to talk with our London office nightly in order that the news of the two capitals might be checked, and that we might not duplicate stories. The second night following the events of the foregoing chapter I talked to our London bureau for the last time. All that day my mind had been busy with one idea: "If war is declared, how can we beat the censor?" The first answer that probably occurred to every correspondent was: "Code." Alas, events moved too quickly. A secret code was a matter that might have been arranged had we been given our expected months of notice, but there was no time now. I gave the call for our London office, however, with this idea still uppermost in mind. I waited a quarter of an hour to be put through. Then I heard the voice of my colleague. It sounded harassed. I shall never forget his first remark after the communication was established. I could almost see him pass a hand over a fevered brow; I could almost hear the sigh that I am sure accompanied the words which were: "My gracious, I never expected to live to see such days as these!" It was quite natural that he should have said just that, but somehow there did not seem any fitting reply. Also it seemed rather hopeless to talk about codes. So I said: "I am told that we will not be allowed to telephone after to-night." He replied: "That's a fact. I guess this is good-by for a while." He paused--then as an afterthought, added: "I think you would better just send everything you can from Paris without paying any heed to whether London does or not." Inasmuch as a moment had arrived when there was only one possible way to do many things, I quite agreed with him. The conversation lagged. "Well, good-by," I shouted. "Good-by," he replied, "and good luck." That was the end of the telephone as an adjunct to transatlantic journalism. I have never spoken with our London office from that night. After hanging up the receiver I had an idea. It did not and does not now seem a particularly brilliant one; but, again, it was the only possible thing to do. I turned to Mr. Duranty and said: "We will have a little race with the censor. We will crowd everything possible on the cable before he gets on the job."