Von G. and I roomed together at Kiel, sharing apartments and a bath in the harbormaster’s flat above the Imperial Yacht Club postoffice, whose two stories of brick and stucco serve as "annex" to the always overcrowded and palatial Krupp hotel, the Seebade-Anstalt, at the other end of the flowered club grounds. That bath, which I mention in no spirit of ablutionary arrogance, has to do with the story of von G., for it was to bring me on a day destined to be historic in violent conflict with Junkerism. Von G. and I regulated the bath situation at Kiel by leaving word on our landlady’s slate the night before which of us would bathe first next morning and at what hour. The bath happened to adjoin my sleeping quarters and von G. could not reach it except by crossing my bedroom, which he always entered without knocking. On Sunday, June 28, fateful day, von G. was timed to bathe at eight A.M., I at nine--so read the schedule inscribed by our respective hands on the good _Frau Hafenmcistcr’s_ tablet. At seven-thirty I was roused from my feathered slumbers by her soft footsteps--the softest steps of German harbormasters’ wives are quite audible--as she trundled across the room to arrange Herr von G.’s eight o’clock dip. Junkers are punctual people, but that morning mine was late. Eight, eight-thirty, eighty-forty-five passed, and there was no sign of him. When nine o’clock came, I thought I might reasonably conclude, in my rude, inconsiderate American way, that von G. had overslept or postponed his bath, so I made for the tub at the hour I had intended to. I was just stepping one foot into it when--it was nine-ten now--von G., rubbing his eyes, bolted in. "What do you mean by taking my bath?" he yelled at me. "That’s some of your damned American impudence!" Whereupon, imperturbably pouring the rest of me into the bath, I ventured to suggest to Field-Marshal von G., that if he would drop the barrack-yard tone and remember that I was neither a _Dachshund_ nor a Pomeranian recruit, I would deign to hold converse on the point under debate. I am not sure I spoke as calmly as that sounds, for to gain a conversational lap on a German you must outshout him. At any rate, von G., abandoning abuse, stalked whimperingly from the room, fired some rearguard shrapnel about "just like an American’s ’nerve’," and bathed later in the day. I did not see him again until about five o’clock that afternoon. He bolted into my room this time, too, but in excitement, not anger. "The Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife have been assassinated," he exclaimed. "Good God!" I rejoined, stupefied. "It’s a good thing," said von G. quietly.