to wait for a train that was late! Shut yourself up in
your own backyard with a man with a rifle watching you for twenty-
four hours and see whether, if you have the brain of a mouse, prison-
camp life can be made comfortable, no matter how many greasy
packs of cards you have. And lousy, besides! At times one had to
laugh over what Mark Twain called "the damfool human race."

Inside a cookhouse at one end of the enclosure was a row of soup-
boilers. Outside was a series of railings, forming stalls for the
prisoners when they lined up for meals. In the morning, some
oatmeal and coffee; at noon, some cabbage soup boiled with
desiccated meat and some bread; at night, more coffee and bread.
How one thrived on this fare depended much upon how he liked
cabbage soup. The Russians liked it. They were used to it.

"We never keep the waiter late by tarrying over our liqueurs," said a
Frenchman.

Our reservist guide had run away to America in youth, where he had
worked at anything he could find to do; but he had returned to Berlin,
where he had a "good little business" before the war. He was stout
and cheery, and he referred to the prisoners as "boys." The French
and Russians were good boys; but the English were bad boys, who
had no discipline. He said that all received the same food as German
soldiers. It seemed almost ridiculous chivalry that men who had
fought against you and were living inactive lives should be as well fed
as the men who were fighting for you. The rations that I saw given to
German soldiers were better. But that was what the guide said.

"This is our little sitting-room for the English non-commissioned
officers," he explained, as he opened the door of a shanty which had
a pane of glass for a window. Some men sitting around a small stove
arose. One, a big sergeant-major, towered over the others; he had
the colours of the South African campaign on the breast of his worn
khaki blouse and stood very straight as if on parade. By the window
was a Scot in kilts, who was equally tall. He looked around over his
shoulder and then turned his face away with the pride of a man who
does not care to be regarded as a show.

His uniform was as neat as if he were at inspection; and the way he
held his head, the haughtiness of his profile against the stream of
light, recalled the unconquerable spirit of the Prussian prisoner whom
I had seen on the road during the fighting along the Aisne. Only a
regular, but he was uphold