coundrel
and a spy until he proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that he is
a neighbor.

And then one is never certain. People were everywhere aghast to
find even their life-long friends in the pay of the enemy. A large
military establishment draws spies as certainly as a carcass draws
vermin; the one is the inevitable concomitant of the other. It is the
Nemesis of all human brotherhood.

Now to be taken as a prisoner of war was to most men more of a
Godsend than a tragedy. The prisoner knew that he was to be
corralled in a camp. But he was alive at any rate and he had but to
await the end of the war--then it was home again. The pictures
show phalanxes of these men smiling as if they were glad to be
captives. On the other hand there are no smiles in the pictures of
the spies and francs-tireurs. They know that they are fated for a
hasty trial, a drumhead decision, and to be shot at dawn. The
prospect of that walk through the early morning dews to the
execution-ground made their shoulders droop along with their
spirits.

With these thoughts on our mind we held our tongues and kept
our eyes on the door, wondering who would be the next guest to
arrive, and mentally conjecturing what might be the cause of his
incarceration.

The last arrival wore a small American flag wound round his arm,
and around his waist he wore a belt which contained 100 pounds
in gold. He spotted me, and, coming over to my corner, opened up
a conversation in English. I thought at first that this was merely a
clumsy German ruse to trap me into some indiscreet talking. To
his kindly advances I curtly returned "Yeses" and "Noes."

His name was Obels, a Belgian by birth but speaking English as
well as German, French, and Flemish. He was an invaluable
reporter for a great Chicago paper, and in his zeal for news had
run smack into the Germans at Malines, and had been at once
whisked off by automobile to Brussels for trial as a spy. He had a
passionate devotion to his calling. No mystic could have been
more consecrated to his Holy Church. I fully believe that he would
have consented to be shot as a spy with a smile on his face if he
could have got the story of the shooting to his paper. He was one
of the most straightforth fellows I have ever met, and yet I
regarded him there as I would a low-browed scoundrel. For a long
time I would not speak to him. I dared not. He might have been a
spy set to worm out any confidences, and then carry them to
Javer