stale food and the proximity of so many dirty
human bodies all packed into the kennel together.

Ten of us slept on the floor of that little grogshop--the five of our
party lying spoon-fashion on two mattresses, Gerbeaux and Stevens making
seven, and three soldiers. The soldiers relieved each other in two-hour
spells, so that while two of them snored by the door the third sat in a
chair in the middle of the room, with his rifle between his knees, and a
shaded lamp and a clock on a table at his elbow. Just before we turned
in, Rosenthal, who had adopted a paternal tone to the three guards, each
of whom was many years older than he, addressed them softly, saying:

"Now, my children, make yourselves comfortable. Drink what you please;
but if any one of you gets drunk I shall take pleasure in seeing that he
gets from seven to nine years in prison at hard labor." For which they
thanked him gratefully in chorus.

I am not addicted to the diary-keeping habit, but during the next day,
which was Friday, I made fragmentary records of things in a journal,
from which I now quote verbatim:

Seven-thirty a. m.--about. After making a brief toilet by sousing our
several faces in a pail of water, we have just breakfasted--sketchily--
on wine and almonds. It would seem that the German army feeds its
prisoners, but makes no such provision for its guests. On the whole I
think I should prefer being a prisoner.

We have offered our landlady any amount within reason for a pot of
coffee and some toasted bread; but she protests, calling on Heaven to
witness the truth of her words, that there is nothing to eat in the
house--that the Germans have eaten up all her store of food, and that
her old mother is already beginning to starve. Yet certain appetizing
smells, which come down the staircase from upstairs when the door is
opened, lead me to believe she is deceiving us. I do not blame her for
treasuring what she has for her own flesh and blood; but I certainly
could enjoy a couple of fried eggs.

Nine a. m. Mittendorfer has been in, with vague remarks concerning our
automobile. Something warns me this young man is trifling with us. He
appears to be a practitioner of the Japanese school of diplomacy--that
is, he believes it is better to pile one gentle, transparent fiction on
another until the pyramid of romance falls of its own weight, rather
than to break the cruel news at a single blow.

Eleven-twenty. One of the soldiers has