Germans again, then captured by their own people again. It’s when the armies sits down and quits fightin’ on their feet that you cain’t git around. I could a-gone from Berlin right to Paris through all the fightin’ durin’ the first month of the war, before the battle of the Marne.

“Funny thing about that battle. I was all through it, and I never knowed till afterward in Paris that it was the battle of the Marne.

“Then I got to Paris. Paris was awful, half dead, Zeppelins comin’ over most every night, government in Bordoo. I got to the Embassy——”

“Mr. Solslog,” I interrupted, “how on earth did you get about knowing not a word of French?”

“Oh, I made mistakes, in course. But an American can do anything, suh; can git anywhere he has a mind to, I mean. They was always some one who could say a few words of my language—English Tommies, American reporters—they was everywhere I went.”

“But money?”

“I had a hundred and forty francs when I got to Paris. I paid for everything,” he said proudly, “and they never cheated me so’s I could notice it. They’re great people, the Frenchies. Once I worked for ’em two weeks in one of their field hospitals, just because I liked ’em. ‘Muhsoor luh American,’ they called me. ‘Muhsoor’—that’s French for ‘Mistah’ and my sis——But I told you that beefore.

“I got a pass from the Embassy——”

“How did you do that?”

“I told ’em about my sistah. They hadn’t had word about her, so I got the pass. Then I got a pass from General Caselnow and went to the front.” His tired eyes gleamed restlessly as he went on. “You-all here cain’t imagine it, I reckon, how dirty it is and how it stinks. War is mostly bad smells. The men cain’t wash, they’re covered with live things, flies is awful, rotten horses and rotten men have to lie about, sometimes for weeks, till people can bury ’em. Soldiers marching through a town you can smell for blocks sometimes.

“I got arrested, in course, but the Frenchies is always kind. It’s the English is hard. They locked me up in Calais; wouldn’t listen to me. I told ’em about my sistah, but they only laughed. They let me write to the Embassy, though, and Mr. Herrick made ’em release me. That was in November, I think, and I hadn’t had word of my sistah.

“Then I went to London on an empty horse transport. They knew I was stowed away on it, all right, and it was ’gainst orders, so they chased me—tried to find me all night. The transport was awful dirty after all them horses had been in it, but I had to git to London to see if they had got word of my sistah. I slid down a ventilator and lit in a horse stall. It half killed me: knocked me plum out and sprained my back so’s I couldn’t run no more. They come a-snoopin’ round with lanterns, right up into the stall, till the light fell plum on my face. I didn’t hardly breathe, but my hurt back seemed broken right through, so I says, ‘Here I am.’ An’ they found me.

“They talk a queer kind of language, the English do: it’s a little like ours, and they’re more like us Americans than the Frenchies, or the Dutchmen, or the Germans. They helped me up, cussed me out a lot; but they got hot water and bathed my back, and one of ’em, a dirty hostler from Chelsea, he bedded me down for the rest of the night and give me tobacco. So I got along all right. They smuggled me off.

“Mr. Page’s secretary in London told me they hadn’t heard of my sistah, and he sent me to see Hoover’s committee—the committee to send Americans home, preehaps you know. It was about closed up, but I didn’t want to go home, not without my sistah, and they hadn’t any word of her, so I went back to the Embassy. They was a man there. I misrecollect his name now, he was very good to me. He told me to go home. I says I wouldn’t—without my sistah I wouldn’t, so he helped me to git over to Holland. Oh, I forgot to tell you, suh, I was sick in London; had some kind of fever and stayed in the hospital two months. It hurts me still here,” he pointed solemnly at his forehead. “I had awful dreams: dreamed that the Germans had caught my sistah—they had her in a little house, and she was screamin’.” His eyes lighted dreadfully. “You-all cain’t understand it, preehaps, but I hear her screamin’ ’most every night and sometimes in the daytime if I ain’t feeling very well. Listen! Listen, suh! I’m huntin’ for my sistah, and you-all must help me! You-all’s got to help me, or I’ll—I’ll—I’ll go crazy—I’ll kill somebody!”

The soft Southern drawl mounted to a shriek, and my visitor had me by the throat. I fought him off desperately. His sickness had weakened him, or else he would have throttled me. Suddenly his hands relaxed, his eyes lost their light, and he spoke again in the slow, gentle voice he had first used:

“You-all must pardon me, suh. I—I’m right ashamed of myself. I’ve spoiled your tie.” He deftly rearranged the crumpled folds before I could interfere. “I—I reckon I’m not quite reesponsible when I think of—of things that might have happened. It’s seven months, suh, and I ain’t had word of my sistah.” He drew out a tattered paper, stamped with many stamps, sealed with many seals, and showed me a line in German script.

“To look for his sister, reported to be in Maubeuge at the beginning of the war.”

“I cain’t read what the German says,” he observed quietly.

“To go to Antwerp, Brussels, Mons, Charleroi, Maubeuge, Dinant, Namur, Liége,” I translated aloud, “to look for his sister.”

Months later Mr. Solslog came again. “There is a gentleman in the reception room waiting for monsieur: an American gentleman——” Leon shrugged his shoulders expressively, spread out his palms, and went on in a rapid whisper: “He asked for monsieur. Nothing else could I understand. He has waited for monsieur four hours, and he talks, talks to himself always!”

From the hall I heard a steady gentle voice talking, talking, talking. “Mr. Solslog,” I hailed him. The voice stopped. He must have stepped swiftly from the thick carpet to the tiled floor of the hall, for he came like a man running.

“You-all here, suh,” he asked, without an interrogative lift to the question. “Let me—let me hold on to your hand for a minute. I—I’m right glad to see you. They’ve just—I’ve just got out.” He gathered his voice and breath for a tremendous effort. His next sentence came like a blast of prophecy. “Oh, may God damn the Germans!” he screamed.

“Leon,” I shouted, “bring brandy, quick!”

“Oh, no, suh; not for me. I don’t use it.” Mr. Solslog gently released my hands and walked beside me into the reception room. His face was whiter than before, the lines in it deeper, and the pathetic, patient eyes stranger than when I had seen him last; but the fever fit of passion passed and left him calm as usual.

“I haven’t found my sistah—it isn’t that,” he explained in his slow, drawling voice. “I’ve jist got out of prison here in Antwerp, suh. I told the German officer if I ever see him again I’ll kill him. I’m going to kill him if I ever see him again. I’m going to——”

“Yes, yes,” I said soothingly. The monotonous recitative I had heard on first entering the house had begun.

“I told him I’d kill him, I’d kill him, suh, kill him, I’d kill