“Oh, indeed,” said Tiadatha, Thinking very little of it, “Come as usual in the morning,” Went with Percy to the French Club Bent upon a pleasant evening. All things can be won by waiting, All things can be won by pushing, Even dinner at the French Club, Where our very generous Allies Let us come and eat their rations. There they had a special dinner, Percy and my Tiadatha, Cooked as only Frenchmen can cook, With some passable Veuve Clicquot, Drier than Macaulay’s Essays, Cheering as a nigger rag-time, Followed by some fine old brandy, All produced by smiling Camille, Now a _poilu_, late of Prince’s. Then they wandered to the Tour Blanche For the usual evening revel, Feeling very bright and merry, Found the doors were barred against them. Wandered on a little farther To the Leicester Lounge and Gaiety, Found the doors were barred against them, Found them housing homeless women With their baggage and their babies. “Woggs was right,” said Tiadatha, “True enough the town is blazing; This is going to be ‘some’ evening.” All the sky was glowing crimson, Clouds of smoke were welling upwards, And the sparks like golden raindrops Poured upon those wooden houses Packed like herrings in a barrel; And a mighty wind was blowing, Sweeping from the hills to seaward. Percy and my Tiadatha Dashed along the Rue Egnatia, Saw the fire was driving down it As a bore drives down a river; Ruthless as an angry bison, Hungry as a famished tiger, Eating up the wooden houses, Eating up the shops and cafés. Falling beams and crashing shutters, All were gone in half a minute, Swallowed by that whirling furnace. Soon it burnt the Provost Marshal Out of his expensive office, Soon it reached the Rue Venizelos, Where a fitful fire-engine (All that Salonica boasted) Played upon the flames in trickles, Did about as much to quench them As a mug of tepid water Does to quench the thirst of soldiers In a boiling Balkan summer. “Going some,” said Tiadatha, “Better hop back to the Splendide, Heaven and earth aren’t going to stop it.”