ut it. Our soldiers and sailors are being
cared for and entertained in England just as they would be cared for and
entertained at home. So are their officers. Not long ago one of the
finest town houses in London was donated by the owner for an American
officers' club, the funds were raised by contributions from British
officers, and the club was inaugurated by the King and Queen--and Admiral
Sims. Hospitality and good-will have gone much further than this. Any
one who knows London will understand the sacredness of those private
squares, surrounded by proprietary residences, where every tree and every
blade of grass has been jealously guarded from intrusion for a century or
more. And of all these squares that of St. James's is perhaps the most
exclusive, and yet it is precisely in St. James's there is to be built
the first of those hotels designed primarily for the benefit of American
officers, where they can get a good room for five shillings a night and
breakfast at a reasonable price. One has only to sample the war-time
prices of certain hostelries to appreciate the value of this.

On the first of four unforgettable days during which I was a guest behind
the British lines in France the officer who was my guide stopped the
motor in the street of an old village, beside a courtyard surrounded
by ancient barns.

"There are some of your Americans," he remarked.

I had recognized them, not by their uniforms but by their type. Despite
their costumes, which were negligible, they were eloquent of college
campuses in every one of our eight and forty States, lean, thin-hipped,
alert. The persistent rains had ceased, a dazzling sunlight made that
beautiful countryside as bright as a coloured picture post-card, but a
riotous cold gale was blowing; yet all wore cotton trousers that left
their knees as bare as Highlanders' kilts. Above these some had an
sweaters, others brown khaki tunics, from which I gathered that they
belonged to the officers' training corps. They were drawn up on two
lines facing each other with fixed bayonets, a grim look on their faces
that would certainly have put any Hun to flight. Between the files stood
an unmistakable gipling sergeant with a crimson face and a bristling
little chestnut moustache, talking like a machine gun.

"Now, then, not too lidylike!--there's a Bosch in front of you! Run 'im
through! Now, then!"

The lines surged forward, out went the bayonets, first the long thru