ember of it. You might linger over
your coffee, knowing the truth, and look out at the people who did not
know it. When they were not buying more buttons with the allied
colours, or more flags, or dropping nickel pieces in Red Cross boxes,
they were thronging to the kiosks for the latest edition of the evening
papers, which told them nothing.

A man had to make up his mind. Clearly, he had only to keep in his
room in his hotel in order to have a great experience. He might see
the German troops enter Belgium. His American passport would
protect him as a neutral. He could depend upon the legation to get
him out of trouble.

"Stick to the army you are with!" an eminent American had told me.

"Yes, but I prefer to choose my army," I had replied.

The army I chose was not about to enter Brussels. It was that of
"mine own people" on the side of the schipperke dog machine-gun
battery which I had seen in the streets of Haelen, and the peasant
woman who shook her fist at the invader, and all who had the
schipperke spirit.

My empty appointment as the representative of the American Press
with the British army was, at least, taken seriously by the policeman
at the War Office in London when I returned from trips to Paris. The
day came when it was good for British trenches and gun-positions;
when it was worth all the waiting, because it was the army of my race
and tongue.

II
Mons And Paris

Back from Belgium to England; then across the Channel again to
Boulogne, where I saw the last of the French garrison march away,
their red trousers a throbbing target along the road. From Boulogne
the British had advanced into Belgium. Now their base was moved on
to Havre. Boulogne, which two weeks before had been cheering
the advent of "Tommee Atkeens" singing "Why should we be
downhearted?" was ominously lifeless. It was a town without soldiers;
a town of brick and mortar and pavements whose very defencelessness
was its best security should the Germans come.

The only British there were a few stray wounded officers and men
who had found their way back from Mons. They had no idea where
the British army was. All they realized were sleepless nights, the
shock of combat, overpowering artillery fire, and resisting the
onslaught of outnumbering masses.

An officer of Lancers, who had ridden through the German cavalry
with his squadron, dwelt on the glory of that moment. What did his
wound matter? It had come with the burst of