Yet in spite of a few such inharmonious notes, Cauterets, like Saint Malo and Aix-les-Bains, is instinct with the spirit of the American soldier on leave. And the American soldier on leave is the Playboy of the Western World. When the last doughboy has walked up the gang-plank of the last west-bound transport, I think the railway officials, gate-keepers, station agents, and train conductors all over France will settle back in their chairs and draw a deep breath of relief. The French poilu and the English Tommy have both questioned often and bitterly why it was that while they must ride third class, the American soldier habitually traveled second and first; the answer being that you simply can’t keep the doughboys out! It is the idea of the social distinction implied by the _classes_ I fancy that makes half the trouble. However that may be, it is absolutely against the rules of the game for any doughboy to ride third class if there are any second class coaches, and equally disgraceful to ride second class if there is a first. I myself have seen an American buck private with third class transportation in his pocket stretching his legs in a luxurious first class compartment seat, while a French general stood up outside in the corridor! At another time I took a journey in a first class compartment built for six, in which three English officers, an English titled Lady, her companion, two muddy doughboys and myself were all crowded. This was an anxious trip for me, for not only was I worried lest an indignant conductor should eject the doughboys, but I was also guiltily conscious of having paid only a second class fare myself! One joyous company of eight lads on leave whom I encountered on the way down here counted in their number one sergeant with a well-worn second class pass. Things arranged themselves very simply. In the line-up at the gate or in the car, the sergeant, heading the file, presented his pass first, then, as it was handed back to him, slipped it behind his back to the next man and so on down the line. Once in a second class compartment it was usually an easy matter to transfer to first. This same crowd related to me how, when locked out of an empty first class compartment by an irate conductor they merely waited until the next stop, then getting out climbed through the window on the off side of the train into the forbidden seats. “Golly, but that old frog got a shock when he looked in through the glass door and saw us sitting there!” They were overcome with chagrin because at the last change one member of the party allowed himself to be bullied by a hard-boiled M. P. into leaving the first class car. “He’s broken our record,” they mourned; “he’s disgraced the family!” And half their pleasure in the remainder of the trip was spoiled it was evident.