Enough again of figures. At the best they tell only part of the story. The boys who enjoyed the multifold hospitalities of the Red Cross in Toul--that quaint, walled, and moated fortress town of old France, with its churches and its exquisite cathedral rising above its low roofs--could tell the rest of it; and gladly did when the opportunity was given them. For instance here is a human document which came into my hands one day when I was at the Toul canteen: "_Dear Red Cross Girls at the Canteen_: "I always wanted to tell you how I appreciated all the nice things you have done for us since I have been over here and would have, but perhaps you'd think I was making love to you for I felt I wanted to get you in a great big bunch and give you a great big hug. No, I wouldn't need any moonlight and shivery music, for it isn't that kind of a hug--the kind of hug I wanted to give is the kind a brother gives his sister; or a boy gives his mother when he wants her to know that he loves her and appreciates her.... You girls are for the boys of the fighting power and you don't ask any questions and you don't bestow any special favors and so we all love you. "(A soldier) MR. BUCK PRIVATE." Sometimes actions speak louder than words. There came a time--in September, 1918--when the troops were moving pretty steadily through Toul and up toward the Argonne. The Red Cross girls were hard put to it to see that all the boys had all the food and drink and lodgings and baths that they wanted; but they saw that these were given and in generous measure, even though it meant ten and twelve and fourteen and even sixteen hours of work at a stretch. They had their full reward for their strenuous endeavors, not always in letters, or even in words. Sometimes the language of expression of the human face is the most convincing thing in all the world. It was a boy from Grand Island, Nebraska, who slouched into the Toul canteen in the station yard on one of the hottest of those September nights. He was tired and dirty, and his seventy-five pounds of equipment upon his back must almost have been more than mortal might bear. But he did not complain--it was not the way of the doughboy. He merely shoved his pack off upon the floor and inquired in a quiet, tired voice: "Anything that you can spare me, missy?" He got it. Sandwiches, coffee, the promise of a bath; finally the bath itself.... When the boy--he was indeed hardly more than a boy despite his six feet of stature--left the Red Cross colony he had been fairly transformed. He was cleaner, cooler, almost younger, and seeping over with appreciation. "It was wonderful," he blurted out. "I'd like to thank you--in a practical way, sort of. Let me send you something down from the front--a souvenir like."