This time it was an American of the French Ambulance Service.

“Say, listen,” he said. “I can give you some mighty good stories. Real stuff, do you get me? Listen: One night there was a boche wounded out there and I brought him in. He had one leg all shot to pieces and we had to operate. I was going to give him the ether when he turned over and looked me in the face. ‘Why, Dan,’ he said, ‘aren’t you going to speak to me?’ It was a chap I’d gone to school with in America. I could give you lots of stuff like that; do you get me? I used to be in New York, and Rube Goldberg used to call me up out of bed at six in the morning. ‘Dan,’ he’d say to me, ‘I’m up against it for an idea. Will you give me an idea?’ Do you get me? And there’s a dramatic critic in New York⁠—I won’t tell you his name⁠—but he used to tag around me after a first night and ask me what I thought of the show. Do you get me? I can give you a lot of good stuff.”

I told him I was afraid that if he gave it to me all at once I wouldn’t remember any of it. So he is coming to my hotel every day during his leave, to give me a little at a time⁠—if he can find me.