the corners buttoned back, and red trousers with the lower parts stuck in his boots. These things, however, did not have any particular interest for me; not that I was an indifferent onlooker by any means, but the thing I was interested in was on the end of his rifle; the big shining steel bayonet, which to me had a most vicious aspect. It was sixteen inches long but I thought it looked like sixteen feet.

Without losing any time this man took me over to the Registration Department, where another man asked me a lot of fool questions, scanned my passport, and finally gave me a permit of some kind or other. I then asked him what time the train went to Paris. "One minute," he said in French. I thought I'd have to hustle, but he was very deliberate. He filled out a printed blank, taking five minutes to do so and then handed it to me, saying in English, "Zis will give you ze permission to inquire what time ze train goes to Parees." From that moment on my stay in Europe, as I now look back upon it, was one continuous performance of asking for, and getting, or being refused, permits to go somewhere or to come somewhere or to remain somewhere.

Now time, money, and patience were all limited assets with me, but the European officials did not seem to realize this or else were very inconsiderate. They wasted half my time, extracted at least two-thirds of my money, and absolutely exhausted my patience. At risk of having my name instantly recommended for membership in the Ananias Club, I will defiantly state that I had to have five different kinds of papers on my person to allow me to start for Paris, to get to Paris, to remain in Paris, to be identified in Paris, and to drive an automobile in Paris. If I slipped a cog anywhere I was lost. They say a chain is no stronger than its weakest link, and I had to possess every link in this chain of paper.

I remember one fellow who had lost his permit to come to Paris. When he passed his examination for a driver's license, the old fossil in charge would not give it to him. As I understood the matter, the theory was that he could not possibly be in Paris at the time as he could show no paper allowing him to come. And let me say in passing, some of these papers come high. I have figured it all up many times, and as near as I can estimate, the papers, all told, which I had to take out during my European stay, set me back about fifty pounds, five shillings and four pence, or in the neighborhood of two hundred and fifty dollars. It seemed as though every time I turned around some fellow was extending to me a handful of papers and an empty palm. But relieving me of money was not all. The red tape connected with it was what worried me most. Before I could receive the particular permit I wanted, I usually had to take another paper over to another man and swear to a lot of things and get his O. K. upon it. This went hard with me because I'm not used to swearing. I'm a preacher.

In my experience the application was a more formidable thing than the permit itself, and then after I finally received the permit I had to take it down to the Prefect of Police and have it registered before evening. If this was neglected my permit was invalidated and the whole performance had to be gone over again next day. After the permit was registered I had to bring back the voucher of registration and deposit it with the man who issued the permit.

The reason for all this is that every nation in the war takes it for granted that every foreigner is a spy, until he is proved not to be, and every nation not in the war thinks all visitors are trying to get them to violate their neutrality and thus get them into the war. I will admit, however, that dealing with neutral diplomats is a lot easier than dealing with the belligerents.

Then also you have to remember a great many passwords. If you go out of Paris you are given a password, after proving your right to receive the same, and you can't get in again until you give it. If you happen to go to another town or city on the same trip, the same thing happens, only the password is different and all of them change every day. So it is not hard to imagine something of the intricate system which is kept up, and the confusing details which are required in order to get from one place to another and back again. Of course, if you absolutely forget or lose the password, there are other alternatives but they require a tremendous lot of red tape. You can hunt up the proper official, wait until he is at leisure, perhaps two hours, tell him about your unfortunate predicament, present all your papers, and after convincing him that you are entitled to the password you may receive it from him if he is willing to give it to you.

I traveled in Europe before the war and it irritated me as it does most Americans, to be compelled incessantly to register my name and address, age, occupation, place of birth, and the same details of my father and mother, place of entering the country and length of time I had been there; but this was nothing compared to the formalities and the irritating requirements of the present time. French officials try to be as accommodating and polite as possible, but if you object to any point, they tell you with a shrug of the shoulders, that they must live up to the regulations and that they must be very careful, as the country is full of spies and peace propagandists.

If you travel at all through the country by automobile, you have to come to a halt at every crossroad and every bridge. Patrols with rifles are stationed at these places and the man who tried to run by one of these would be shot down instantly. You are required to produce all your papers, which are scanned by the guards, who, if satisfied, will then let you drive on in peace until you come to the next guarded point. If the guards are not satisfied, you sheepishly turn your car around, go back to Paris, get your papers rectified, or get additional ones and strike out again. You often lose hours of time and, not infrequently, days as well, in getting the required permits. You get angry at first, but it does no good and you may as well quickly learn to keep your temper, for when you think it all over you will realize that when such a vital issue is at stake, every possible precaution must be taken.

CHAPTER III HOW I GOT INTO THE SERVICE

My first formal call when I got to Paris was upon Ambassador Sharp. This, however, was not until I had been in the city several days. I had become acquainted on the ship with a party of Serbians who had been mining up in Alaska and were now going back to fight the Austrians. They had some difficulty and delay in arranging their passports, so I remained with them until they got away.

When at last I called on Mr. Sharp and told him I wanted to go to Belgium, he asked me why I didn't stay and do relief work in France. He informed me that I would not be allowed to go to Belgium anyway, as the German Government had already required the United States to withdraw many of the consuls. He said my work was needed there in France. Of course I agreed with him—under the circumstances! Acting upon his suggestion and with his letter of endorsement I went to Neuilly and applied for work in the now well-known American Ambulance. I was accepted almost immediately and then I carefully removed my frock coat and folded it up. Without delay I received a uniform and equipment and set to work. The outfit was issued to me free, although men with plenty of money had to pay for theirs. I remember having my picture taken in uniform and sending it to my