a fresh start and tries another path. I always
think of him as outside of a circle in the center of which is his goal.
He strikes the circle at one spot; if he can get through, well and good.
If not he draws away, moves a little around the circumference and
strikes again. This resourcefulness and fertility of method are
conspicuous characteristics of him. To that degree he is "diplomatic."
But if there is only one way he fights to the extreme along that way.
And those of us who have lived through the difficult, the almost
impossible, days of Belgian relief, food administration, and general
European after-the-war relief, with him, have come to an almost
superstitious belief in his capacity to do anything possible to human
power.

He has a great gift of lucid exposition. His successful argument with
Lloyd George, who began a conference with him on the Belgian relief work
strongly opposed to it on grounds of its alleged military disadvantages
to the Allies, and closed it by the abrupt statement: "I am convinced;
you have my permission," is a conspicuous example, among many, of his
way of winning adherence to his plans, on a basis of good grounds and
lucid and effective presentation of them. He has no voice for speaking
to great audiences, no flowers of rhetoric or familiar platitudes for
professional oratory, but there is no more effective living speaker to
small groups or conferences around the council table. He is clear and
convincing in speech because he is clear and precise in thinking. He is
fertile in plan and constructive in method because he has creative
imagination.

The first of his war calls to service came just as he was preparing to
return to America from London where he had brought his family from
California to spend the school vacation of 1914. Their return passage
was engaged for the middle of August. But the war came on, and with it
his first relief undertaking. It was only the trivial matter--trivial in
comparison with his later undertakings--of helping seventy thousand
American travelers, stranded at the outbreak of the war, to get home.
These people, rich and poor alike, found themselves penniless and
helpless because of the sudden moratorium. Letters of credit, travelers'
checks, drafts, all were mere printed paper. They needed real money,
hotel rooms, steamer passages, and advice. And there was nobody in
London, not even the benevolent and most willing but in this respect
powerless American ambassad