expressed his endless
gratitude to Davis and the rest of us for what we had done for him
in Salonika.

In a few days he was to return to France with his regiment. What
has happened to him since then I have no means of knowing. His
movements are again wrapped in that dense fog which veils the
soldier's life to all the outside world except those to whom he
writes.

In view of what we now know of Hamlin's physical condition at the
time his mind was obsessed with the idea of deserting, both Mr.
Shepherd and I are glad to believe that his decision to desert was
the consequence of physical rather than mental or moral weakness,
for his stamina was at its lowest ebb because of a weakened body.

JOHN T. McCUTCHEON.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS,
September 15, 1917.

THE DESERTER

In Salonika, the American consul, the Standard Oil man, and the
war correspondents formed the American colony. The correspondents
were waiting to go to the front. Incidentally, as we waited, the
front was coming rapidly toward us. There was "Uncle" Jim, the
veteran of many wars, and of all the correspondents, in experience
the oldest and in spirit the youngest, and there was the Kid, and
the Artist. The Kid jeered at us, and proudly described himself as
the only Boy Reporter who jumped from a City Hall assignment to
cover a European War. "I don't know strategy," he would boast;
"neither does the Man at Home. He wants 'human interest' stuff,
and I give him what he wants. I write exclusively for the subway
guard and the farmers in the wheat belt. When you fellows write
about the 'Situation,' they don't understand it. Neither do you.
Neither does Venizelos or the King. I don't understand it myself.
So, I write my people heart-to-heart talks about refugees and
wounded, and what kind of ploughs the Servian peasants use, and
that St. Paul wrote his letters to the Thessalonians from the same
hotel where I write mine; and I tell 'em to pronounce Salonika
'eeka,' and _not_ put the accent on the 'on.' This morning at the
refugee camp I found all the little Servians of the Frothingham
unit in American Boy Scout uniforms. That's my meat. That's 'home
week' stuff. You fellows write for the editorial page; and nobody
reads it. I write for the man that turns first to Mutt and Jeff,
and then looks to see where they are running the new Charlie
Chaplin release. When that man has to choose between 'our military
correspondent' and the City Hall Reporter, he choose