Whereat I, with some asperity, remarked that if the French people wouldn’t sell drink to the Americans, the soldiers wouldn’t become _zig-zag_ and do such things. Immediately she became conciliatory. Of course, everyone knew that there were good people and bad people in every nation, but certainly! Then she changed the subject abruptly, demanding; why, why in the name of common sense did I do anything so contrary to all the dictates of reason as to sleep with my window open? Last night, as Mr. K. and I were coming home from the canteen, the door of the cafe opposite was suddenly opened and a man’s figure appeared, half pushed, half thrown outside. The door slammed shut,—it was long after closing hour for the cafe,—the figure fell like a log to the ground. We watched a minute to see the fellow pick himself up, but he lay motionless. It was a freezing night. Mr. K. went over to investigate. The man was in a drunken stupor. “You go along,” he called to me, “I’ve got to get this fellow home.” I left reluctantly. Subsequently Mr. K. told me the night’s history. After considerable coaxing, he had finally succeeded in extracting the information that the boy belonged to F Company. So to F Company barracks, a good half-mile north of the canteen, they had proceeded, Mr. K. half dragging, half carrying the fellow who was head and shoulders taller than he, and broad to boot. When they had nearly reached their journey’s end, Mr. K. by this time fairly in a state of collapse, his burden suddenly baulked. The barracks evidently didn’t look like home to him. Mr. K. began to have a sickening sense of something gone wrong. At last the wretch drowsily recalled the fact that he didn’t belong to F Company at all, but to I Company far on the other side of town. So around they turned and back through town they crawled until finally they arrived at I Company’s abiding-place; and this time the derelict was satisfied.