Decidedly, said Joseph Williams to himself, this was the life. Elevator-starting was a sociable and decorative calling, but made too severe a demand upon the faculties. After the war he would settle right here in France and chaperon a cow. It was at this point that Joseph went finally to sleep, in the shadow of the cow which had started his train of thought. He awoke greatly refreshed—he had arrears of sleep to make up after the discomforts of the voyage—and set out for the town, with his mind a luxurious blank, except for two small matters. First, the entire absence of any suggestion of war. Joseph had half expected to find his landing disputed by the full strength of the German Army. Conversation on board had tended that way, and he had promised himself a happy hour writing home to describe how he, followed by his devoted adherents, had triumphantly overcome the foe’s resistance. In fact, he had written the letter already. Second, every one in this country appeared to be white—French soldiers, French sailors, French civilians. He longed for the sight of one ebony face. Even a mahogany one would do. And on the outskirts of the town the latter wish was gratified. A sudden turn in the road brought him face to face with his own double—or very nearly. The double was attired in what Joseph took to be a French uniform of some kind, the most conspicuous and enviable items of which were immensely baggy trousers and a red fez. The double, after one glance at Joseph’s modest khaki uniform and homely features, broke into a dazzling smile. The pair advanced rapidly upon one another and shook hands with enormous enthusiasm. Both broke into speech simultaneously. Then befell the tragedy. Each spoke a tongue entirely incomprehensible to the other! Each paused, incredulous; then, convinced there must be some mistake, began again. Then came another pause. A look of almost pathetic bewilderment appeared upon each honest countenance—countenances almost identical in shade and feature. Then Joseph exclaimed: “Why, nigger, what so’t of fancy nigger does yo’ think yo’ is?” The gentleman in the fez retaliated with a query which, to judge by sound and intonation, was very similar to Joseph’s. The look of bewilderment on Joseph’s face gave place to a severe frown, which was immediately reflected in that of his double. Each of these children of Ham now darkly suspected the other of imposture. “Don’ yo’ go an’ get fresh with _me_, nigger!” said Joseph, in a warning voice. “_Yakki-wakki-hikki-doolah!_” growled the other—or words to that effect. Joseph lost all patience. His voice suddenly shot up an octave higher, and he screamed: “You ain’t no nigger at all! You’re only a Af’ican!” * * * * * Possibly it was in self-compensation for this disillusioning encounter that Joseph promptly mailed to his affianced in distant Lebanon, Illinois, the letter which has been mentioned above. It began: