“No—not quite. I figured my friend, Sergeant Canwick, bein’ such a good friend an’ on accounta my savin’ him an’ all that—I figgered he’d be only too glad to come around and explain the argument and get me outa the jug, but instead o’ that I stays there and has to listen to some frog interpreter tellin’ that bartender’s tale o’ woe, an’ in the end they decided, without my consent, that I had to pay fer the damage done to his damn old buvette by givin’ up most o’ my pay for four months. Course that struck me as one o’ the funniest things that ever happened.... Besides which I discovered that I was supposed to spend ten days in one o’ them prison gangs, one o’ them heavy labor outfits.... An’ it was so funny that I just laughed and laughed every time I thought of my good friend, Mister Canwick, an’ how easy he got outa a bad lickin’.” “I don’t understand it at all,” I declared. “Huh—maybe not, buddy, but I do—an’ if you didn’t have them stripes on ya and if you was a little bigger than the shrimp ya are, I’d give ya a lacin’ right now to make up fer the one you missed.” He looked so grim and serious that I was really scared for a minute, but I insisted over and over again that I didn’t know anything about the jam at all. “Honest to God, Ben—I haven’t been in Le Mans for a couple of months—not since I left there with the General! That’s the God’s truth and I can prove it by the General! We haven’t been near Le Mans!” He looked at me then and I could see that he was beginning to have doubts. He wanted to believe me, I guess, but it didn’t seem possible that he could be wrong. “If it wasn’t you, who was it then?” he finally demanded. “I’d swear it was you—looked just like you right this minute.” Well, I knew who it was. My darling brother had, I thus learned, arrived in this land of the fleur-de-lis. But I couldn’t tell Ben that. I couldn’t tell him about Leon, for if we should ever bump into him, Ben would be sure to wonder why his name was Leonard Lane. There was only one thing for me to say and I said it: “I can’t imagine who the devil it was, Ben. I must have a double running loose over here—did he have a sergeant’s chevron on his sleeve?” That stumped him for a moment. “Damned if I know,” he admitted. “I didn’t stop to look. But he looked exactly like you—an’ I still think it was you.” “Well, you’re wrong. I give you my word of honor and I can prove that I haven’t been in Le Mans since I saw you last.” I insisted, and was gratified to see that he was impressed. “Anyway, I’m much obliged to you for saving what you thought was me, and I’ll make up the money end of it to show you my heart’s in the right place.” “What the hell’s the idea?” he demanded. “If it wasn’t you, why should you wanta pay the bill?”